


Brooklyn Three-Nine

by aussiebornwriter



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brian as Amy, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Freddie as Gina, Jim as Rosa, John as Terry, M/M, Phoebe as Boyle, Roger as Jake, brooklyn 99 au, pretty much following the show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-01-13 02:27:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18459560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebornwriter/pseuds/aussiebornwriter
Summary: Queen as Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Follows the show's episodes.Based on Brooklyn Nine-Nine/Queen fanart: @spaceman_nic0 on instagram





	1. Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this just follows the show. i changed a few lines here and there, and obviously the more i add on the more canon divergent it's going to be - please don't report me for copywright sksksjsjsks it's just a bit of fun

“This job is eating me alive. I can’t breathe anymore. I spent all these years trying to be the good guy. The man in the white hat. I’m not becoming like them. I _am_ them.”

“Hey!”

A second voice interrupts Roger from his monologue. Head snapping to the source of the voice, he finds his co-worker, Detective Brian May, looking at him with disdain.

“What are you doing, weirdo?”

“I’m doing the best speech from Donnie Brasco,” Roger says, spreading his arms as if it’s obvious. “Or, actually,” Roger looks around, the multitude of television screens that are filled with his face imitating his movements. “Ten of me are doing the best speech from Donnie Brasco.” He smirks into the camera. “What’s up?”

“Just get it together, okay?” 

Brian sighs before turning back to the store manager.

“So the store was hit about two hours ago. They took mostly cameras, laptops and tablets-“

Brian is cut off by upbeat music, and he turns to find Roger fiddling with a keyboard. Feeling Brian’s gaze, Roger looks up to find Brian glaring at him.

“Sorry,” he says, not in the least bit apologetic.

Brian rolls his eyes. He pulls out a notebook and clicks his pen.

“I’d like a list of all your employees, whoever had access to the store. I’d also like to apologise for my partner, his parents didn’t give him enough attention.” 

“Uh, Detective,” Roger’s voice calls out, and Brian once again turns to face Roger. “I’ve already solved the case.”

Brian gives him a disbelieving look, and Roger powers on.

“We’re looking for three white males, one of whom has sleeve tats on both arms.”

Brian walks to him, arms crossed.

“And how, exactly, do you know that?”

“I had an informant on the inside.”

Brian eyes him suspiciously.

“He’s been here for years,” Roger continues. “Watching, learning, waiting. His code name?”

Roger reaches behind the camera he had previously been looking into, to reveal a small, stuffed teddy bear.

“Fuzzy Cuddle Bear,” he declares. Turning the bear around to display a hidden camera, he grins widely. “He’s a nanny cam!”

“Ugh, you got lucky,” Brian scoffs.

“Nope,” Roger grins, popping the ‘p’. “I got here five minutes before you, and figured in this gigantic electronics store there had to be at least one working camera.” He connects Fuzzy Cuddle Bear to a screen and plays the tape, showcasing the men he had previously described. “Oh, hi bad guys,” he sings. He turns back to the bear. “You did it Fuzzy. You busted them. It’s time to come home.”

Roger holds the toy out, holding it directly in Brian’s face. He lowers his voice.

“I’m not sure if I can,” he growls, giving the bear its own character. Brian listens, a playful smile tugging on his lips. “I’ve been undercover so long, I’ve forgotten who I am. I have seen terrible things.” Brian smiles, enjoying Roger’s little game. “I haven’t known the touch of a woman in many moons-“

“All right,” Brian says, turning to leave Roger behind. He’s heard enough of Roger’s sexual euphemisms to know exactly where Roger was heading.

“Detective May,” Fuzzy (well, Roger) cries. “Don’t walk away from me!”

* * *

“Yes, I did crack the case. So, May, will you do the honours?”

The detectives of the 39th Precinct are gathered in the briefing room, and the whole room fills with ‘oohs!’ and stomping of feet. Brian dejectedly walks up to the white board and the makeshift scoreboard, adding an extra point to Roger’s score. 

“I hate this,” Brian mutters darkly.

“Oh yeah, you’re just going to want to add one. I’m winning,” Roger gloats, basking in Brian’s loss.

The staff clap and Roger boasts more as Brian makes his way back to his seat.

Sergeant John Deacon steps up to the lectern. 

“Rog, update on the Morgenthau murder?” 

Roger stands and walks over to the TV, taking the remote from John. A picture appears on screen of a dead man.

“Yeah! Good news for all you murder fans. Early this morning, someone decided to shoot and kill luxury food importer Henry Morgenthau. Body was found by the cleaning lady. During her interview, I deduced, using expert detective work, that she had something super gross on her chin.”

The room groans in disgust as a close up of an old woman flashes onto the screen, something suspiciously yellow on her chin.

“I think it’s flan,” Detective Peter Freestone declares.

Roger points to him. “Phoebe thinks it was flan, I think it was butterscotch pudding.”

“Maybe it was just old person gunk,” Detective Jim Hutton states, arms folded and legs up on the table. “You know how old people always have that gunk on them?”

“Elderly gunk, yeah,” Roger agrees, nodding pensively and turning back to the image. “Anyone else?”

“How about we focus on the murder and not the old person gunk,” John cuts in, and Roger makes his way back to his seat.

“Crime techs are at the scene now, we’re headed back when we’re done,” Brian helpfully informs John, ever the teacher’s pet.

John nods. “Okay, I want you on this. It’s gonna be priority one for the new C.O.”

As everyone begins shifting at the silent dismissal, Jim cuts in.

“Wait, tell us about the new captain.”

“Captain Beach will be here soon; he’ll want to introduce himself. Dismissed.”

* * *

At his desk, Freddie Mercury is signing documents as Phoebe shuffles towards him. 

“Hey, Fred. Freddie, do you know any scalpers? I want to ask Jim to go to the Rihanna concert with me, but it’s sold out.”

Freddie squints in a judgmental fashion (he was one hundred percent judging). Jim was a rough, tough, ruggedly handsome Irish man. Phoebe was the literal embodiment of a children’s toy. Phoebe had been harbouring this hopeless crush for a while, and Freddie found it both endearing and pathetic.

“Okay, two points to make here. First, Rihanna? _You_ ,” he points his pen at Phoebe, “and then, _Rihanna_.” As he says her name, he gestures to the ceiling with a worship-like flair. He makes a face of disgust. Phoebe blunders on.

“Yeah. What’s your second point.”

“He’s got a type. Which is really anyone but you,” Freddie says, rather bluntly. Phoebe leans back.

“Yeah, that was my ex-husband’s type, too,” he says dejectedly. Freddie, feeling bad for the guy, changes tactic and attempts to actually help his friend.

“Look, a Rihanna concert is a pretty big swing. I don’t know,” Freddie rests his chin in his palm, his long hair falling around his cheeks. “He’s into watching old movies.”

“Cool! Where would I find a place that shows old movies?” Phoebe grins, rejuvenated. 

“Oh yeah, just go on the internet and search for the phrase, ‘I want to buy two movie tickets for a girl who doesn’t like me,’” Freddie says seriously, and Phoebe doesn’t seem to realise that Freddie’s taking the piss. Phoebe stands up to do exactly that.

“Great, thank you,” he breathes, making his way back to his desk. Freddie watches him leave, an unreadable expression on his face, before he picks his pen back up and turns back to his own work.

* * *

“Hey, have you heard anything about the new Captain?” Brian asks Roger, throwing his empty coffee cup into a nearby bin and sitting on Roger’s desk.

“Uh no, and I don’t care. I just wish Captain McGinley never left, he was the best.” 

Brian scoffs. “He was terrible! You only liked him because he let you do whatever you wanted.”

Roger leans back in his chair, remembering fondly of a time where he and Jim held a fire extinguisher roller chair derby. The entire precinct had been chanting, a loud, raucous chorus filling every corner of the room. Just as they had been about to unhook the safety pin and begin blasting, their old captain, Captain McGinley had emerged from his office with a shout of,

“What’s going on in here?”

Silence had fallen over the precinct, and Roger said,

“Fire extinguisher roller chair derby.”

The captain had only nodded, then retreated back to his office. The bullpen erupted in cheers as Roger shouted, ‘go!’

 _They'd never had one since,_ he thinks glumly.

“Yeah, what’s your point?” He asks. Brian runs a hand through his hair.

“If I’m ever going to make captain, I need a good mentor. I need my rabbi.”

Roger shakes his head woefully. He picks up a pen and twirls it between his fingers skilfully. “Sorry dude, he’s just going to be another washed-up pencil pusher who’s only concerned with,” he drops the pen and brings his arms up in a robot like fashion, molding his voice to a stiff, robotic tone. “Following every rule in the patrol guide. Meep, morp, zeep – robot captain engage-“

“Is that what you think?” A deep voice cuts Roger off and he jumps, startled. He faces the new Captain. 

“He-hey! New captain alert,” Roger chuckles, embarrassed at having been caught making fun of said captain. Brian only watches on smugly; glad Roger is finally being put into place. “You must be the new C.O. I’m detective Roger Taylor, great to meet-“

“No, don’t let me interrupt,” the Captain says, ironically cutting Roger off in the middle of his sentence. “You were describing what kind of person I’m going to be. I’d like you to finish.”

“That’s not necessary,” Roger protests. The new captain looks at him. Roger hurries to amend his behaviour. “Or I could recap very quickly, sure. Um, let’s see.” Roger desperately tries to save face, and all the while he can see Brian in the corner of his eye, and all Roger wants is to slap that arrogant look off his face. “I think I said some joke about being a washed up pencil pusher.”

“Now do the robot voice,” the captain interjects, the authority in his voice leaving no room for objections. Roger plays dumb, but the captain is not having it.

“Which-?”

“The robot voice you were doing when you implied I’m a rule-following robot.”

By now, the entire floor is watching the entire showdown, and Roger’s cheeks burn with humiliation.

“I want to hear it again.”

It’s silent. A single phone rings, and Roger knows he has no choice.

“Meep, morp… zarp,” he says quietly, avoiding the eyes of everybody in the room. “Robot,” he finishes pathetically.

“That’s a terrible robot voice,” the new captain says.

“Yep.”

“The next time I see you I’d like you to be wearing a neck tie.”

Roger looks down at his shirt, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. A necktie?

“Oh, uhm, actually, the last captain didn’t care if we wore a tie,” Roger says, realising after he speaks that disagreeing with the new captain may not be the best idea.

“Well, your new captain does. And more importantly, he cares that you follow his direct orders. Everyone,” he turns to address the entire room. “I’m your new commanding officer, Captain Jim Beach.”

“Speech!” Brian cheers. 

“That was my speech,” Captain Beach says deadpan.

“Short and sweet,” Brian hums, offering a thumbs up.

“Sergeant Deacon, a word,” he says, marching into his office, and John scurries behind him.

Brian smiles wide, turning to Roger. “I love that guy,” he gushes. 

“Same!” Roger replies sarcastically.

“He was so suave. Does anyone get a little bit of a gay vibe?” Freddie says, sashaying towards them The other two detectives just stare. “No? Okay.”

* * *

“Sergeant, you were in the one-eight with me. One of the best in the field. Tell me, what’s this about you being on administrative leave?”

John sighs. “A year ago, my wife and I had a son, Robert.” He pulls out his wallet and shows the picture of his infant son to the captain.

“He has adorable, chubby cheeks,” Beach says with no emotion.

“Ever since,” John continues, “I’ve been scared of getting hurt. Lost my edge. There was an incident in a department store,”

Oh, John remembers all too well. He and Roger had been scoping out an empty department store when Roger comments about how John seemed jumpy. John had brushed it off, but startled when he saw a mannequin. He screamed and fired twelve bullets, and the mannequin had fallen over. Roger had watched the entire process, and made a snide comment once John had calmed down.

“I’m still not right,” John admits. Sensing he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, Beach changed the subject. 

“Tell me about your detective squad.”

They made their way to the window where they could peer out to the bullpen. John clears his throat.

“Um, well, Mary Austin and Elton John. They’re pretty much worthless, but they make good coffee.”

“Copy that.”

“Now the good ones. Jim Hutton,” John points. “Tough, smart, hard to read, and really scary.”

Jim is sitting at his desk when his computer freezes. He begins to hit it violently, grunting. John flinches slightly and redirects their attention to a calmer detective.

John points to the kitchen. “Peter Freestone. He’s a grinder. Freddie nicknamed him Phoebe. Well, Fred nicknamed all of us, but Phoebe is the only one that stuck. Not the most brilliant detective, but he works harder than anyone else. He’s not physically... gifted.”

They watch as Phoebe struggles to unwrap a muffin, and promptly drops it. 

“Oh, man! My muffin.” He stares sadly. He leans down to pick it up, only to whack his head against the kitchen bench – John and Captain Beach both wince as they hear the dull thud all the way across the room. When Phoebe pulls back in pain, he steps back in haste, only to step on his muffin. “Ah! Oh, my head! My muffin, my head! And I stepped on the – on my muffin! And my head and my muffin!”

They turn away from Phoebe’s meltdown and John directs the Captain’s gaze to- 

“Brian May. He’s an only child, and skinny as hell, so he’s always trying to prove he’s tough. He and Taylor have some big bet over who gets more arrests this year. Ever since the bet, their numbers have gone way up.”

“Tell me about Taylor.”

“Roger Taylor is my best detective. He likes putting away bad guys and he loves solving puzzles. The only puzzle he hasn’t solved is,” John takes a breath, a dramatic suspense hanging over them, “how to grow up,” he finishes.

“That was very well put.”

“I’ve talked about Roger a lot in my departmentally mandated therapy sessions,” John confesses.

“Look, you know how important this is to me. This precinct is doing fine, but I want to make it the best precinct in Brooklyn. And I need your help.”

“Absolutely sir,” John affirms. They shake hands. “Where do we start?”

They turn to look back out the window. They see Roger dancing beside Brian, who looks on, amused.

“We start with him.” Beach says.

* * *

They’re all stood in Morgenthau’s apartment, (Phoebe, Jim, Roger, Brian) investigating. 

“Okay, so the perp came in through the window, left the muddy red footprint, and apparently had sex with the dish rack.” Roger deduces, pointing to said window, red footprint stained on the bench, and the overturned dish rack with broken dishes. 

“Shell casing found here, two shots – bang, bang,” Brian says, ignoring Roger’s comments as usual. He holds up his arm, fingers pointed like a gun as he acts out his last words.

“Great work detective. You get a tie,” Roger grins, chucking a tie to Brian. 

“Hey, that’s mine. You took it from my desk,” Phoebe says, frowning in confusion. Brian catches the tie, throwing a glare at Roger. Jim laughs. 

“That’s right, Pete. Good solve! Tie for you,” Roger says, pulling another tie out from his pocket and tossing it to a grinning Phoebe. Phoebe’s _'thanks!'_ falls on deaf ears. 

“Now everyone be sure to put those on because it’s impossible to solve crimes while wearing a tie!”

“Lay off the captain. That man is going to be my rabbi,” Brain scolds.

“Okay, first of all, when you use the word ‘rabbi,’ you know that turns me on, and that’s unfair in a work environment.”

Brian shakes his head, writing notes in his notebook.

“Secondly, your rabbi is a pain in my ass.”

“Yeah, he’s a little too serious,” Phoebe says, wanting Roger’s approval. “What do you think, Jim?”

“He seems cool,” Jim says without looking up from him own notebook.

“Yeah, he seems cool, I agree,” Phoebe says, deciding agreeing with his crush was better than agreeing with Roger. Roger rolls his eyes at his friend’s antics.

“Looks like the perp stole a computer, a watch, and a Jamon Iberico ham valued at – what! Six thousand dollars.” Jim says.

“Six thousand dollars for a ham?” Roger repeats disbelievingly.

“Jamon Iberirco is an amazing cured ham from Spain. They had it at my uncle’s funeral. I gorged myself at that funeral. I was constipated for three days,” Phoebe iterates, leaving the other three to look at him with varying levels of disgust.

“Wow, that’s a great story, Phoebe, thank you,” Roger says drily. Phoebe laughs at the compliment, missing the sarcasm. “All right, listen up everybody! Better contact Captain Beach, let him know we’ve got a ten tie situation.” Brian smirks slyly, and Roger initially thinks it’s because of his fucking hysterical and ingenious pun, but –

“Speaking of ties, where’s yours, Meep Morp?” Roger jumps as Captain Beach’s voice booms from behind him.

“Captain, hey! Welcome to the murder, what are you doing here?” 

“I like to know what my detectives are up to. That okay by you?”

“Yep,” Roger replies, an awkward tension filling the room.

“Take May and door knock, see if the neighbours heard anything.”

“Door duty? It’s a waste of time,” Roger whines. He really doesn’t know how to stay on the Captain’s good side.

“Hutton and Freestone, check in the coroner, report back in an hour.”

Captain Beach nods in affirmation, then leaves the apartment as abruptly as he had arrived.

“Well, that went well,” Roger mumbles sarcastically.

“No, it didn’t,” Captain Beach’s voice echoes from the hall.

Roger shakes his head in frustration. “He’s got fucking super hearing.”

* * *

“Hey Jim! Hey, hey Jim!” Phoebe chases Jim outside, stopping Jim from entering his car. Jim holds the door open, looking expectantly at Phoebe. “Um, I just happened to notice, that, uh, there’s an old movie festival playing at the film forum this week. Wanna go?” Phoebe asks, trying to play off his request as nonchalant as possible.

“Sure,” Jim says, without much hesitation.

Phoebe is very taken aback, to say the least. “Cool! Awesome. There’s a bunch of movie options,”

Jim smirks and steps into his car.

“I’ll probably just go with something classic, like Citizen Kane,” Phoebe rambles, leaning close to the open window of Jim’s car.

“Citizen Kane is terrible. Pick a good movie,” Jim states, starting up the engine.

“Good call,” Phoebe says, internally having a meltdown. He doesn’t like Citizen Kane? What the actual fuck was he going to choose?

As Jim drives away, Phoebe mutters, “I’ll do it. I’ll pick a better movie than Citizen Kane.” He nods dejectedly in the street and puts his hands in his pockets.

* * *

“So, Freddie,” Captain Beach starts. They’re in Beach’s office. “Civilian administrators like yourself often have their ear to the ground. What do May and Taylor have riding on this bet of theirs?”

“I will tell you on six conditions,” Freddie says seriously. “Number one, you let me use your office to practise my dance moves. Second – “

“How about this?” Beach stares Freddie down, and Freddie feels himself shrink a little – he did not like disappointing looks – he’d had enough of those from his father to automatically feel guilty. “If you tell me, I won’t have you suspended without pay.”

“Oh, that sounds great!” Freddie enthusiastically agrees, clapping his hands. “Okay, the deal is if Brian gets more arrests, Roger has to give him his car. It’s an old Mustang, and it’s pretty sweet. If Roger gets more arrests, Brian has to go on a date with him. Roger guarantees it will end in sex.” Freddie is waving his hands around dramatically, pointing and gesturing on his body. “I bet on at least some over-the-clothes actions.” Freddie’s voice turns sultry. “At the very least, some touching…”

“No, that’s enough Freddie.”

His order is ignored.

“Caresses, I could see him showing up in a silk robe. I could lend him one, I have a few-”

“That’s enough, Freddie.”

“All right.” Freddie stands up and walks to the door.

“Thank you.”

* * *

“Let the wasting of time begin!”

Roger knocks on an apartment door, and it opens wide. A young, scrawny man faces them, and a group of about three sit behind him. The smell of weed hits the two detectives head on, and both grimace simultaneously.

“Hello, sir,” Brian starts. “Can we ask you a few questions?”

The man peeks out the hallway before facing the two again.

“Definitely, yeah. Actually, I’m super glad you guys are here right now. Are you smelling that weed smell?”

They nod, and he continues.

“Cause, a dude broke in, smoked weed, and bolted.”

“Do you think it’s the same dude who left that bong on the floor?” Roger says, entirely unconvinced.

“Yes.”

Door Number Two doesn’t fare much better.

The door cracks open, chain still on, and a small, nervous man glances wearily at them.

“Hello,” Brian says.

“Hello,” is meekly echoed.

“What’s your name?” Brian asks.'

“My name? Mlepnos.”

“Can you spell that, please?” Brian asks, pen and notepad at the ready.

“M-L-E-P...Clay.”

“Did you say clay?” Brian repeats, confused.

“Yes. The clay is silent.”

Brian’s eyes widen slightly, and Roger just watches the entire encounter go down in flames. God, Roger wishes he had popcorn. Brian holds up a picture of the victim.  
“Have you seen this man before? He was shot last night.”

Mlepnos reaches for the photo, plucking it from Brian’s hand. He nods at the officers, closing the door with a ‘thank you.’

“No sir, that’s ours, we need that-“

The door clicks shut, and Brian hangs his head in frustration, exhaling heavily.

They say third time’s a charm. Brian says fuck that. By the time they reach the top floor, both detectives know that this is going to be pointless. Not a single door so far had been of any help.

“Wall Street Journal on the doormat, top floor apartment. Twenty bucks says this guy’s like, a hot, eligible bachelor.” Brian bets, feeling his negative mood wane with the less doors they have to cover. 

“I’ll take that action,” Roger agrees, rapping sharply on the door. “Police! Open up!"

The door swings open to show a short elderly man wearing a breathing tube, glasses and hearing aids. 

“Hello,” he rasps. Roger laughs, and Brian wants to melt through the floor.

“Oh! Hello sir!” Roger enthusiastically greets him. Brian wants to punch Roger in the face. “How are you today? I’m Detective Right-All-The-Time, and this is my partner Detective Terrible Detective!”

* * *

“No surprises from the coroner. A few gunshots, shoulder and chest.” Phoebe summarises, reading from a folder. Phoebe, Jim, Roger, Brian and Captain Beach were gathered around Roger and Brain’s conjoined desks.

“None of the neighbours heard or saw anything. And what’s worse, May struck out with a ninety-two year old.” Roger grins, pointing finger guns at Brian.

“That is not accurate, sir,” Brian interjects, trying to spare himself some dignity.

“Wait, you hooked up with him? Ugh!” Roger says seriously. Brian shoots him a withering glare.

Captain Beach addresses Roger. “Alright, hit the pawn shops and canvass the neighbourhood. And while you’re at it, you can buy yourself a tie.” 

“Oh, actually sir, I’m already wearing a tie.” Roger grins cheekily, pulling up his shirt to reveal a tie that had been knotted around his chest. “Secret tie,” he gloats, obviously very proud of himself for finding a loophole.

Captain Beach only looks on unamused. 

“First of all, I think you’re overdoing it with the man-scaping. But more importantly, detective, why do you refuse to take my orders seriously? Does anyone here know why it’s so important to me that you all dress appropriately?”

Everyone remains silent. Captain Beach sighs.

“Hmm. Four highly trained detectives and not one of you can solve this simple mystery. I want to be briefed on any new developments. Any questions?”

Roger raises his hand. “I was going to ask you if you thought I was over doing it on the man-scaping, but we solved that one, so I’m good.”

Captain Beach walks away, shaking his head with disappointment. Jim and Brian head over to the kitchen, leaving Roger and Phoebe alone. Roger inspects his nails, trying to appear offhand and relaxed. In reality, his mind was whirring.

“So, Freestone, what about this fancy ham stuff?”

“Jamon Iberico.”

“Yes. The perp left a really expensive television but then stole ham? It doesn’t make sense. Is there a place nearby the crime scene that sells it?”  
Phoebe thinks for a second, hand on his hips. He clicks his fingers. “Beneficio’s might.”

“Let’s go.” Roger picks up his jacket and starts walking towards the lift.

“You gotta brief the C.O. first,” Phoebe protests.

“We’ll brief him after we catch the guy.” Roger's tone leaves no room for arguments.

Phoebe looks back at Captain Beach’s office, then follows Roger out of the precinct.

* * *

“My name is Ratko. I don’t know anything.”

“Oh, okay.” Roger looks around the store, inspecting the variety of deli meats on display in front of him. He pulls out a picture of Henry Morgenthau. “You recognise this guy?” Ratko is looking away, avoiding eye contact.

“No.”

Roger stares for a second, feeling a familiar sensation bubbling in his gut. _He was right._

“Maybe actually look at the picture,” he suggests, smirking slyly. Ratko glares at Roger.

“I don’t know him, I don’t know what happened. No more questions,” he insists.

“Well,” Roger says, tucking the picture back into his pocket. “Why don’t I run a scenario past you, Ratko, and you tell me what you think.”

Ratko rolls his eyes.

“You do know Morgenthau. He came in here and try to sell you some hams. You knew they were worth a lot of money, so you tried to steal them from him when he wasn’t home. Only he was home, so you shot him,” Roger explains in one breath, glancing expectantly at Ratko. “Does that sound familiar?” Ratko glares at him.  
Roger shifts, basking in Ratko’s guilt.

“Uh, maybe some role play will jog your memory?” Roger turns to Phoebe, who agrees with him. 

“So I’m – I’m Ratko,” Phoebe says, and Roger just looks at him, somewhat dumbfounded. 

“No, no, I’m Ratko,” Roger insists. Phoebe looks hurt.

“Come on. I’m always the victim,” Phoebe whines. Roger shifts uncomfortably.

“Look, I’m not doing this with you right here-“

“Fine,” Phoebe huffs in resignation. Roger clears his throat and nods to Phoebe to begin. Phoebe raises his voice and straightens his back. “Oh! I’m Henry Morgenthau, owner of delicious and expensive hams. Don’t I know you from the grocery store?” 

Roger points a finger gun at him. “Kill! And scene.” He beams at Ratko, who stares for a split second, then shoves breads that had been resting on top of the counter at them. Roger and Phoebe flinch back, and Ratko makes for an escape.

“NYPD! Everyone down!” Roger cries, pulling his gun from his holster. An old woman continues inspecting the grocery shelves as if nothing had happened. Roger attempts to make his way past her, saying, “ma’am, excuse me, if you could just get down, or, ignore me and continue shopping.” He rolls his eyes and redirects his focus to Ratko. “Pheebs, get the door!”

“On it!” Is Phoebe’s response.

“Ratko,” Roger calls, inching through the aisles, gun at the ready. Ratko appears seemingly out of nowhere, pushing copious amounts of heavy tins into Roger, causing him to fumble. Roger grunts. Phoebe, hearing the scuffle, hurries to Roger’s aid. Rakto pushes Roger into shelves, condiments falling around them. They grunt and Roger shoves back. Roger successfully to push himself away from the shelf behind, laughing at his small victory, but before he can properly rejoice, Ratko pushes him into Phoebe and the both stumble to the ground. Ratko runs as quickly as he can behind the counter. He throws various foods at them, Roger letting out the occasional, ‘Ratko, no!’

“That’s a waste of Manchego!” Phoebe protests.

“Phoebe! Not our priority,” Roger hisses. They separate to try and trap Ratko within the shop. The elderly woman from before passes Roger, and he just gapes. “How are you still here?” He wonders, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

“Rog! A little help!” 

Roger looks up to find Phoebe being smothered face-first into the gelato section, Ratko pushing his head down with a brutal force. Roger hurries to help his friend, jumping over the counter with ease. 

“Ratko!” Roger yells.

“I got him! I got him,” Phoebe says, clearly not having ‘got’ him. Ratko disappears out back and Roger helps Phoebe up, angrily glaring at the direction Ratko escaped from.

* * *

“So, no, I did not brief you, and yes, he did get away.”

They’re in Captain Beach’s office, and he is staring them down. Phoebe shamefully keeps his gaze down, fiddling with his fingers, still covered in drying ice-cream. Roger’s voice has a playful lilt as he says,

“But some bonus good news… I got you hazelnut!” 

He places the cup of ice-cream in front of the deadpan captain, and Beach looks affronted as Roger plays with the spoon.

John is standing behind Captain Beach, staring at Roger with confusion and humiliation and disbelief rolled into a singular facial expression.

* * *

The silence of the records room is broken by Roger, who huffs indignantly. Brian stands with him, soaking up Roger’s punishment, positively glowing. John is there too, arms folded disdainfully.

“Is he seriously assigning me to the records room?” He scoffs, throwing down a folder bursting with papers forcefully. “I mean, why do we even have a records room? Computer’s been invented, right? I didn’t dream it?”

“You’re really lucky, man. I wish I could get assigned here full time,” John sighs dreamily. “You could not be farther from the action.”

“Sergeant, you know me,” Roger pleads. “I have more arrests than anyone. Will you please tell the captain how dumb it is to lock his best detective in a file cabinet?”

“Second best,” Brian cuts in. Roger rolls his eyes. _Sure, let him think that._

“You’re wrong about Beach. That man has forgotten more about being a cop than you will ever know,” John reasons. “In nineteen eighty one, he caught the Disco Strangler.”

“Wow,” Roger says.

“The man is the real deal,” John defends. “You need to listen to him.” John leaves, shaking his head.

“Gonna be hard to win our bet when you’re on the bench, Taylor,” Brian gloats. “Although, I did start a new category.” Brian holds up a notepad Roger hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “’Murderers we let go.’ And look! You’re winning,” Brian jeers. Roger grimaces as Brian too leaves the room. “Have fun with your files,” he chants, and Roger follows him to the door.

“Yeah, you know what, I will have fun with my files!” Roger yells. “Have fun with your face!” _Have fun with your face? What the fuck, Roger?_ He thinks to himself. He grabs the door and slams it as hard as he can. 

However, instead of the loud bang he had intended for, a soft thud was all he received as the door stack of boxes that was in the way. Roger stares in confusion for a moment as the door swings right back open.

“Slam! That was a slam,” he tries to compensate for the lameness of his outburst of rage, cursing silently to himself.

* * *

Jim sees Phoebe sitting by himself at his desk, and remembers what he had asked earlier. Smiling slightly, he makes his way to him. He kicks the side of Phoebe’s desk, startling the poor man as he turns suddenly in his chair.

“So, what movie did you get us tickets to,” he asks, his thick Irish accent curling magnificently around his words. Phoebe looks up at him, proud of himself.

“Oh, well, just to be safe, I bought tickets to all of them,” he says with confidence. Jim is taken aback.

“Just to be safe? What does that mean,” he asks. 

“I don’t know,” Phoebe shrugs. “I didn’t wanna mess up, because you're sort of… opinionated.”

“You think I’m opinionated?” Jim growls, offended. Phoebe shrinks under his harsh glare. “Well, here’s an opinion for you,” Jim leans forward. “You’re a bad judge of character and your shirt looks like vomit,” he says. Phoebe swallows thickly.

“So we can go see North By Northwest-“

“We’re not seeing a movie together,” Jim snarls, then turns and leaves in disgust.

“Good call, smart. Keep it profesh,” Phoebe mumbles. He sees Freddie sitting at his own desk, who offers him a thumbs up (he had watched the entire interaction go down). Phoebe smiles at him. 

Then Freddie dramatically turns the thumb-up to a thumb-down, blowing a prolonged raspberry as he mimics an explosion. Phoebe nods solemnly and turns back to his work.

* * *

Captain Beach knocks on the wall of the records room, gathering Roger’s attention. He looks up and greets the captain.

“So, you found something,” Beach says, getting straight to the point. He does a double take as he notices Roger’s newly acquired accessory. “Hey, I like the tie.”

Roger holds his hands up in a surrender-like fashion.

“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Anyway, I think I got something good here. As it turns out, the name ‘Ratko’ is made up. But I was digging through these files – one of which, I literally found in a spider web – and it turns out there were a bunch of references to a Serbian thug, street names ‘the Rat’ and ‘the Butcher,’ who’s known to hang out at a storage unit near Boerum Park, which has red soil, hence, the muddy red footprint on Morgenthau’s counter.” Roger grins, throwing his pen down in victory. Captain Beach looks at him proudly.

“That’s some fine work, detective.”

Roger bows his head, hands clasped. “Thank you very much, sir. Testament to what can be achieved when you dress appropriately. Let’s pound it out,” and he stands, offering a closed fist to the captain for a fist bump. However, when he stands from behind the desk, rather than wearing trousers, he’s only wearing a bright fluorescent green, yellow and pink speedo. Captain Beach stares at him, running his tongue over his teeth.

“You know what, such fine police work,” Captain Beach compliments, his voice rising in volume the more he speaks, and Roger starts getting suspicious. “Let’s share it with the whole team.”

Roger’s eyes widen comically, and he quickly says, “Sir, that’s really not necessary-“

“May! Freestone! Hutton! Bring everyone! And bring a camera!” 

Realising what he’s doing, Roger scrambles to pick up a file and cover himself.

“Let’s have a hand for the work of the fine, master detective, Roger Taylor!” Everyone from the bullpen has crowded into the records room, and they all start laughing and cheering at Roger. Freddie pushes his way to the front and holds up his phone, grinning so wide and laughing so hard he forgets to cover his teeth. Jim starts clapping and wooing, and soon every officer and detective is clapping too.

“Yeah, nice!” Jim calls, and Brian wolf-whistles. Roger nods, then removes the file to showcase his speedo, and the clapping and cheering only gets louder. Several flashes go off.  
“Thank you,” Roger says.

* * *

Brian, Roger and Captain Beach are sitting in darkness in a stakeout car.

“No record of Ratko on the ledger,” Brian reports. “Must’ve used cash.”

“Well, I, for one, am just pumped to be on a stakeout with you, captain,” Roger crows, leaning forward from the middle seat in the back row to be closer to Brian and the captain. 

“You know what my favourite thing about stakeouts is? Patrol guide says ‘no dress code.’ So I’m just the zip-up hoodie and my two best friends-“

“Does he always talk this much?” Beach asks Brian, who is staring straight ahead, a wistful expression on his face.

“I just tune it out. It’s like a white noise machine,” Brian replies.

“Okay, first of all, that’s racist,” Roger cuts in, which gauges no reaction from Brian. “Secondly, Captain, John told me you caught the Disco Stangler?” When Beach nods, Roger continues. “That’s incredible! I’ve read that case. With all due respect, sir, why’d it take you so long to get your first command?”

“Because I’m gay,” Beach says. Roger just laughs. When Beach says nothing, Roger’s mood becomes sombre.

“Seriously?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t know. I don’t try to hide it,” Beach mutters, and Roger faces Brian, who looks smug.

Roger’s memory supplies him with when they first met the captain, and Freddie mentioned he got a ‘gay vibe’ from the captain. And, oh god, the man-scaping.

“Damn, I am _not_ a good detective,” Roger realises. 

 

In another car, Jim and Phoebe sit alone. Jim holds out some money. 

“Here. I feel bad that you spent all that money on movie tickets.”

“Why don’t you just go to the movies with me?” Phoebe attempts, but is quickly shot down. He sighs and takes the money. “Well, this is awkward,” Phoebe says after a beat, feeling the need to fill the silence.

“It’s not awkward,” Jim says. “I like your company. You’re sweet.”

Phoebe has to look out the window so Jim doesn’t notice his blush.

 

“When did you come out?” Brian questions.

“About twenty five years ago,” Beach answers. “The NYPD was not ready for an openly gay detective. But then the old guard died out. Suddenly, they couldn’t wait to show off the fact that they had a highly ranking gay officer. I made captain. But they put me in a public affairs unit. I was a good solider. I helped recruitment. But all I ever really wanted was my own command. And now I finally got it. And I’m not gonna screw it up.”

Well, Roger feels like shit.

“Captain, I’m sorry. I- if it helps, most of out precinct is either gay or bi, but different times, I guess. I feel like a jackass.” He sighs, then looks out the windshield. “But on the flip side of that, there’s Ratko. Humility over. I’m amazing!”

They leave the car and follow the criminal into the storage unit facility. 

“Fantastic, three thousand identical blue doors,” Roger mutters darkly.

“Looks like we all got door duty,” Beach jokes.

“Good one,” Roger says. He shifts his gaze to Brian. “You look great,” he compliments, and Brian just rolls his eyes. They separate here, and make their way through the labyrinth of the storage lockers.

Brian and Beach find a maintenance man mopping the floor in front of them. Brian silently waves his hand, indicating for him to move. The man just flaps his arm, telling them to go around. Brian points at his bullet-proof vest, and the big NYPD emblazoned on it. The maintenance guy just shows his uniform, and Brian groans, walking past the man.

“Unbelievable. Un-be-fucking-lievable,” he hisses venomously.

Roger finds a door that has been unlocked, and his instincts are screaming at him. He’s here! He bends down to open the rolling-door, and he comes face to face with Ratko, who’s pointing a gun between his eyes. Roger holds his arms up in surrender.

“Ratko, great to see you,” he says sarcastically. 

“You can’t stop me,” Ratko snarls. “I’m going.”

“Actually, you’re not going anywhere. ‘Cause if you look to your left, you’ll see detectives Hutton and Freestone,”

As Roger says this, Ratko looks to his left to see the two detectives pointing guns at him. 

“Right there is Detective May,”

Ratko sees a tall man with a shit-tonne of curly brown hair.

“And behind you,” Ratko turns around, “is Captain Beach. Point is, my team has you surrounded. Oh, my god!”

Roger tilts his head back and holds a hand up to his face at his sudden realisation.

“I just got the tie thing! Captain, I just figured it out. It’s a uniform!”

“Maybe now is not the best time, Detective,” Beach calls. 

“We’re a team, and the tie is a part of the uniform, right?” Roger continues as if the captain hadn’t spoken.

“You ask Ratko what team?” Ratko asks, confused.

“No, Ratko, shut up,” Roger dismisses with a wave of his hand. “It’s important to you because you were kept off the team for so long, and now you’re the coach, and you want us to all wear the same uniform! Boom! Nailed it!”

“Yes, you did. Now just arrest Ratko!”

Finally, Roger follows his captain’s orders.

“Alright, Ratko, down. Drop the weapon!” Roger yells. “Hands on your head, here we go. “

Ratko gingerly places the gun on the ground, but makes a break for it, running straight into Brian,who gets his stick out and whacks Ratko in the shins, making him fall.  
“Hands behind your back!” Jim yells, and he jumps onto Ratko, handcuffing him.

Beach and Roger watch from afar. “That’s how we do it in the three-nine, sir,” Roger smiles, putting his gun back in its place on his hip. “Catch bad guys and look good doing it.” Roger shifts, wincing.

“What’s wrong with you?” Beach asks, concerned. Was he hurt?

“Never took of the speedo. Big mistake. It is inside me. Great work team!”

Beach laughs lightly at Rogers antics, and follows him out.


	2. The Tagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger thinks the graffiti case he's investigating is below him until he discovers the culprit is the deputy commissioner's son; Freddie's psychic friend gets under Phoebe's skin.

It’s 8:03am in the thirty-ninth precinct, and Captain Jim Beach is stood impatiently beside Detective Roger Taylor’s desk. He frowns with disdain as Roger himself enters the bullpen.

 

“Ah, Captain, you’re at my desk,” he says cheerfully. “Just what I want to see first thing in the morning.” 

 

“You’re three minutes late, Taylor,” Beach scowls. He has his hands on his hips in an authoritative stance.

 

Roger points finger guns at the captain as he gives his excuse. 

 

“Not my fault. I had a plumbing problem.”

 

Well, Roger’s not entirely wrong. The alarm for his phone went off and he chucked the mobile device across the room, and it landed in his toilet with a _splosh_.

 

“Which reminds me, I’m gonna need a new departmentally issued phone,” he grins. Beach just stares at him. “Really? I’m a few minutes late, so you’re going to call me out in front of everyone?” Roger groans.

 

“Good idea. Everyone?” Beach calls, gaining the room’s attention. Roger rolls his eyes. Jim and Brian glance over from Jim’s desk where they had been speaking at the sound of their captain’s voice.

 

“Gather round, so I can call out Taylor in front of you.” Phoebe looks up as well, and he, along with Jim and Brian, make their way to where Roger and Beach were standing. Freddie looks up from his phone at the commotion, and swiftly rolls his chair out and scurries to stand next to Phoebe.

 

“Okay, fine,” Roger concedes. “I was three minutes late. I’m sorry for doing one thing wrong.”

 

Beach leans down onto Roger’s desk to pick up a stack of files.

 

“Oh, it’s more than just one thing,” Beach warns.

 

“Uh-oh.”

 

“Let’s start with the Kristov murder.”

 

“It was an amazing solve. He confessed within twenty minutes,” Roger brags, crossing his arms.

 

“You also mislabelled the evidence, so that confession is worthless if the sergeant-” Beach points to John, who had by now joined them, and was shifting uncomfortably under the captain’s anger.

 

“-hadn’t caught your mistake. Here are three cases with sloppy paperwork. Here are two pictures.” Beach now puts the files down in favour of holding up two pictures. “One is your locker. The other is a garbage dump in the Philippines. Can you tell which is which?”

 

Roger thinks for a moment, inspecting each of the photographs, before he hesitantly points to the picture on the left.

 

“That one’s the dump?”

 

“They’re both your locker,” Beach growls.

 

“Oh, I should’ve guessed that,” Roger jokes good-naturedly, seemingly unperturbed. “He’s good,” he tells Freddie, who nods enthusiastically, giving him a small thumbs up. Beach reaches for yet another folder on Roger’s desk.

 

“This folder is labelled undies, comma, dirty.”

 

“So I don’t get it confused with undies, comma clean!” Roger protests, as if this is entirely normal. “Also, who cares about all these rules? I have more felony arrests than any other detective!”

 

“You also have more mice living in your desk than any other detective,” Beach deadpans, before he opens Roger’s desk draw to reveal a mouse. A living, breathing, moving mouse.

 

“Algernon!” Roger coos, ignoring the shrieks of disgust from Freddie and the groans and moans of everybody else. He leans forward and picks up the mouse. “You guys, Algernon’s back!” 

 

“Get rid of the mouse and get your act together, now,” Beach orders. He walks away, and holds up his hands so he can ‘talk’ to Algernon.

 

“He’s grumpy,” he chuckles. The mouse does not respond.

* * *

“Bri, where are we with the Jay street drug bust?” John asks in the briefing room.

 

“There are twelve keys of coke unaccounted for, but we just got a warrant to search the dealer’s apartment,” Brian recites.

 

“Good. Take Phoebe and Jim,” John says, pleased with Brian.

 

“Dream team,” Phoebe hums, sipping his tea. Behind him, Jim frowns, mildly disgusted.

 

“Roger, brief us on the vandalism case,” John orders.

 

Roger gets up, walking to the front of the room. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this, Deaky, but someone has been painting wieners on squad cars.” He picks up the remote and clicks a button, and an image of a police car with a fluorescent pink penis pops up on the television. “And apparently, they won’t stop until there is a penis drawn on every cop car in Brooklyn,” he says, flicking to another image with an imprinted car.

 

“Oh, that’s what he’s been drawing,” Detective Elton John realises. “But what are those two little round things?”

 

“That’s the butt,” Detective Mary Austin supplies, and Elton just nods. Roger just stares at them in confusion. 

 

_What the fuck?_

 

“The butt?” Roger echoes.

 

“I assume you have a plan to catch this gentleman,” Beach asks, thankfully keeping the conversation moving. 

 

“Did you just say, ‘genital-man?’” Roger grins. “Because if so, kudos, and yes, I have a plan. I’m gonna plant a decoy squad car as bait. Meanwhile, I’ll be in an undercover vehicle.”

 

“He’s already tagged three U.C. vehicles,” John cuts in. “He can clearly spot them. You should take my minivan.”

 

“A _minivan_? A-ha,” Jim jeers, and the room erupts in laughter.

 

“You all got a problem with my minivan,” John glares, malice lacing his voice. Everyone immediately stopped. “’Cause my wife doesn’t like it either. She wants an SUV. But those things roll. They roll!” He protests passionately, eyes bulging slightly.

 

“That’s a good idea, Sergeant,” Beach cuts in again, once again putting everyone back on track. “We’ll take the van.”

 

“We? You’re coming with me?” Roger asks. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t need backup,” he objects.

 

“It’s not backup. It’s babysitting,” Beach responds seriously.

 

“Babysitting, a-ha!” Jim sneers, and Roger glares at him as everyone starts laughing again.

* * *

Brian, Jim and Phoebe stand around Phoebe’s desk as Phoebe’s reads the suspect’s case.

 

“Oh, look at this,” he says, garnering the other’s attention. “The drug dealer got a BA in art history! Interesting, huh?”

 

“How is that interesting,” Jim glares. Phoebe blinks, taken aback.

 

“Well, it’s surprising because you would think he had studied…drugs,” he mumbles.

 

“I studied astrophysics,” Brian smiles.

 

“Also not interesting,” Jim says.

 

“Excuse me,” a new voice cuts in. They turn and find Freddie with a large woman holding a huge handbag and a dozen bracelets that jingle as she moves. “I know I’m just a lowly civilian administrator, but I couldn’t help overhearing you’re looking for some missing drugs?” He asks. Brian nods, and Freddie continues. “As it turns out, my friend here, Carlene, is a psychic, and she’s ready to help you.”

 

Carlene pulls out a small notebook from her huge handbag and retrieves a business card, handing it to Phoebe.

 

“I do palms, tarot, and I have a degree in numerology from the internet.”

 

“Ugh, really, Freddie? A psychic?” Jim groans.

 

“What? She’s the real deal,” Freddie defends. “E.g., last week, she predicted I would have a sensuous encounter with a guy named Mark, and I did,” he whispers, eyes wide in genuine disbelief and awe.

 

Freddie flashes back to when her prediction came true. He had been sitting in a gay bar, hair mussed and piss-drunk, when he slammed his drink down and turned to face the men scattered across the room. 

 

“Is anyone here named Mark,” he says loudly, bordering on yelling, and three or four hands went up. He pointed at a random guy, and said, “you’ll do.”

 

“She’s had visions which, frankly, science cannot account for,” Freddie says, admiration in his eyes. Phoebe listens intently. “Also, she can get you amazing deals on ladies’ footwear.”

 

“We’re all men,” Brian frowns. 

 

“She’s Assistant Manager at Leonard’s Designer Shoes,” Freddie says. Jim laughs at the ludicrousness of it all.

 

“Vision!” Carlene cries. “The drugs are in a location.”

 

“Wow, I would never have guessed,” Brian mutters. Jim snorts.

 

Carlene has her eyes closed and she keeps speaking.

 

“I see the colour blue.”

 

“She sees blue,” Freddie parrots.

 

“And yellow. And I see the letter l… r, s, t, w, e… and b.” She opens her eyes.

 

“So basically everyone’s first eight guesses in hangman?” Brian snarks. 

 

“Thank you, Carlene. Your entire life is garbage,” Jim leers, and he and Brian walk away to the kitchen, and Freddie and Phoebe watch them leave.

* * *

“So Beach’s coming on my stakeout now?” Roger whines, shuffling up to John’s desk. “I made a mix tape with very explicit rap on it and now I can’t sing along.”

 

“You made a mix tape?” John asks, eyebrows scrunched in confusion, but his eyes are locked on his computer screen.

 

“Yes, I still listen to cassettes,” Roger brushes, waving his hand in the air as if to wave away any confusion. “This guy is all over me! I mean, a captain on a minor vandalism case? It’s insane!”

 

“What’s insane is how you refuse to get with the programme,” John reasons without looking up from his computer. “There is a new sheriff in town.”

 

“Well, I like the old sheriff! McGinley wouldn’t care about a messy desk or all these stupid rules! McGinley wouldn’t care if I was three minutes late because he was always an hour late,” Roger gripes. “And hungover,” he adds as an afterthought. “And he would let you do whatever you want if you gave him a hamburger.”

 

“Would he let you play his mix tape?” John teases, smirking, finally looking up at Roger. Roger grit his teeth and stalked off. “Get an iPod, man,” he calls after him. “Mix tape?” He mumbles to himself, shaking his head and turning back to his computer.

* * *

“Hey, Freddie!”

 

Freddie turned around at the sound of his name, finding Phoebe jogging up to him and his friend, Carlene. Freddie wasn’t entirely sure what Phoebe wanted, but it certainly wasn’t –

 

“I just want to apologise for my fellow detective’s behaviour,” he says sincerely.

 

Well, that.

 

“My gran also had,” he lowers his voice to a whisper, leaning in slightly. “The gift.”

 

“Your sincere belief in my gift means a great deal,” Carlene says dramatically, waving an arm around for good measure. “Vision,” she warns, closing her eyes and pointing at Phoebe. He grows attentive, and Freddie smiles warmly at his friend’s reaction.

 

_Someone_ didn’t take Freddie for a fool at least.

 

“The man you love. The one you work with, the scary one with the brown hair,” she says.

 

“Jim?” Phoebe supplies, a huge smile on his face, hopeful. Freddie feels apprehensive, wondering what Carlene was going to say. He crosses his fingers.

 

“He doesn’t love you back. He will never love you back,” Carlene says. Phoebe looks like someone had kicked a kitten right before him. Freddie laughed at his reaction. As bad as he felt for his friend, he couldn’t help but feel elated.

 

“Say _thank you_ , Pheebs, she just told you your future,” Freddie gloats, being incredibly unhelpful.

 

“Thank you,” Phoebe mutters, eyes slightly misty.

* * *

Roger swaggers up to John’s minivan (geez, a minivan), jumping in the passenger side to be met with a hostile Beach.

 

“You left without me,” Roger squawks.

 

“You were late. Again,” Beach says icily.

 

Roger scoffs. “I had to put on my undercover minivan disguise. Say hello to Harvey Norgenbloom. CPA, recently divorced father of two with a dark sexual secret,” he supplies, regaining his positive charm the further into his cover story he gets. He looks the captain up and down. “What’s your cover?” he asks.

 

“Angry captain.”

 

“Okay,” Roger nods thoughtfully. “So I take it you do not like my ensemble?”

 

“I’m just concerned you may find it hard to pursue a criminal on foot while wearing man sandals.”

 

“But the sandals define Harvey! He’s a sandals guy!” he protests, lifting a foot as if it would help his case if the sandals were even closer to the captain. He just gives Roger the stink eye.

 

Roger sighs. “Captain, why the babysitting? Why are you micromanaging me?”

 

This makes Beach snap.

 

“You think I want to be sitting here with you instead of running my precinct?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“It was a rhetorical question.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I’ve spent the last twelve years fighting for my first command and I’m not going to let you screw it up because you refuse to take your job seriously.”

 

“I do take my job seriously!” Roger huffs indignantly. “I put away bad guys, that’s what matters.”

 

“So does doing your paper work, showing up on time, wearing proper footwear,” he eyes Roger’s highly inappropriate sandals. 

 

“That’s on Harvey, that’s not me,” Roger mumbles, looking out the window. God, the tension made him feel so itchy, like he wanted to scratch his skin off. He absentmindedly began running his nails along his forearm.

 

“Well, here’s the deal,” Beach negotiates. “You’re going to have a superior officer babysitting you on every one of your cases. When you show me you can do your job – every part of your job – perfectly, then I’ll back off.”

 

Roger chews his lip for a second, contemplating what his boss just said.

 

“Okay, counteroffer – I give you fifty bucks and you let me do whatever I want.”

 

Beach just glares at him. Roger rolls his eyes.

 

“Fine. We’ll do it your way,” he concedes. “From this point on, I’ll do every part of the job perfectly. Perfecter than perfectly,” he adds.

 

“It’s ‘more perfectly’. You said that imperfectly.”

 

“I was testing you. You did perfectly,” Roger beams, the spark coming back to his eyes. He looks out Beach’s side mirror and sees a figure in a hoodie spray painting the side of the van. “Quick update on the tagger situation, he is currently spray painting our van right now.”

 

They both open their respective doors, startling the tagger, and he makes a run for it.

 

“Stop! NYPD!” Beach yells, running after him. Roger gets his badge out of his pocket, but his foot gets caught in a crack in the footpath. He stumbles, losing a shoe. He looks back, before realising catching a perp is probably more important than a sandal. Then he remembers he lives in New York, and there’s broken glass and cigarette butts and all other kinds of shit on the ground, so he steels himself with a sigh and hops frantically after Captain Beach and the perp. When he catches up to them, Beach has the perp against the wall of a building and is handcuffing him.

* * *

Back at the precinct, Roger was writing his perp up when he noticed Captain Beach walking past his desk.

 

“Oh, hey, Captain.” Roger stands and makes his way towards his boss. Beach, holding a coffee, tilted his head, not unlike a bird, when Jake commanded his attention. Roger clasps his hands together and smiles. “Hi, so I was able to procure that fifty dollars after all and my offer still stands. Let me do whatever I want and the forty dollars will be yours,” he offers.

 

“Forty dollars?” Beach raises an eyebrow.

 

“That’s how much I actually have,” Roger admits. Beach takes a sip from his coffee. “No? Fair enough, I only had thirty anyway. Well, I guess in order to get you to stop micromanaging me, I’m going to have to get back to the most important piece of police work there is: writing the perfect report,” he says sarcastically.

 

“Good. I’m anxious to read it,” Beach says deadpan. Roger folds his arms.

 

“And I’m anxious to restore my status as a lone wolf,” he grins. He howls, loud and high-pitched, the rasp of his voice cracking the longer he prolongs the call. Beach stares, dumbfounded. 

 

“Anything else, Detective?” he questions tentatively.

 

“Yeah, I’m going to do one more,” he laughs, and howls again. Beach’s eyes widen slightly at the ridiculousness of Roger and he turns and walks to his office, not saying a word. Roger notices Phoebe looking up at him from his desk. “He digs me,” he clicks his tongue, pointing at his friend, and Phoebe smiles and shakes his head good-naturedly. 

 

Roger turns and sees John furiously scrawling on a document, and he wanders over to him.

 

“Hey, Deaks, do you know where we keep the glitter?” 

 

John looks up, confused. 

 

“Why?”

 

“I just want to make sure this report is extra sparkly.”

 

“What are you doing, Rog?” John sighs. He is so done with Roger’s shit.

 

“Look, if I have to do things his way, I’m going to do them my way,” he explains.

 

John laughs at him. Roger furrows his eyebrows.

 

“Okay, Rog. It was nice working with you,” he cackles. 

 

“I’m not scared of him, okay? I’m not scared of anyone!” Roger insists. “Also, the tagger drew a penis on your minivan I’m sorry please don’t chase after me,” he rushes before dashing back to the safety of his desk.

 

“What!” John stands, fuming, good mood vanishing instantly. “There’s a penis on my minivan?”

* * *

“High ceiling, three bedrooms. Why does every perp have a nicer place than I do?” Brian moans, running his hand along the soft, plush sofa.

 

“You know what they don’t teach you at the academy?” Jim wonders, Irish accent thick. “It’s better to be a criminal.” His eyes are glazed as he admires the artwork hung on the wall.

 

“Oh no,” Phoebe frets. He’s standing in the kitchen, and Brian looks over to him. “The cabinets are blue,” he breathes. Brian strolls over to see why Phoebe was upset.

 

“Tacky,” he agrees, not seeing Phoebe’s point. Then he frowns, thinking. “Not a deal breaker, though. I’d just repaint it,” he says before heading to the bathroom. Phoebe follows him.

 

“The psychic predicted the drugs would be found in something blue,” he reminds him, pointing at the cabinet. “She made this really depressing prediction about my life. If she is right about where we find the drugs, that means she’s right about the other thing.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Brian muses. “Kitchen,” he orders, sending Phoebe away.

 

Brian pulls out a tool and begins checking the baseboards of the bathroom. The first one he tries dislodges to reveal a mass of drugs.

 

“Woah, jackpot,” he says, loud enough for his co-workers to hear. “There’s way more than twelve keys in here.” 

 

Jim runs up to him.

 

“Where was it?”

 

“Baseboard, behind the hamper,” Brian smirks. Jim smiles, and Phoebe bounds up to them. 

 

“What colour was the hamper,” he cries. 

 

“Green,” Brian teases.

 

“Yes!” Phoebe celebrates. “The clothes hamper was green. The clothes hamper was green!”

 

Brian and Jim stare at him.

 

“Drinks on me,” he tells them, walking back to the kitchen. Jim laughs.

 

“You’re weird,” he chuckles.

* * *

Roger’s perp taps his foot impatiently as Roger continues to click away at his keyboard.

 

“Sorry this is taking so long. Still writing my report,” he apologises. “Pretty detailed,” he brags. “Hey, Freddie,” he calls across the room, eyes glued to his computer screen. “Can you look up what the humidity was about an hour ago and also what moon cycle we’re in?”

 

“No, sorry. Don’t feel like it, no,” Freddie calls back, decidedly too busy texting somebody on his phone.

 

“Thanks, Freddie,” he drawls. He leans back, turning to face his perp. “And now to you. What’s your name?”

 

“My name is Banana Fartman, M.D.” His perp folds his arms across his chest, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

 

“I don’t believe you,” Roger says, eyes wide. His blond hair falls in his face and he tucks it behind his ear. “Come on mate, just tell me who you are. I need to fill out this thing perfectly so my boss can get off my back.” 

 

His perp just smirks.

 

“Are you a minor? How old are you?” He presses.

 

“Six hundred and ten. I’m a Highlander,” his perp sasses.

 

Roger has had enough of this guy’s shit.

 

“Okay, you know what, I’m going to put that in there, and then you’re going to be tried as an adult Highlander and they’re going to cut your head off,” he says seriously, typing into his report. He gives an intense look at his perp. “Is that what you want?”

 

 

Across the room, Phoebe struts up to Freddie, leaning over his computer.

 

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your friend’s predictions about the drug case were wrong,” he gloats. Freddie puts his phone down. “Which means all of her predictions were wrong.”

 

“Mm-mm. No way,” Freddie is adamant. “She’s never wrong.”

 

Phoebe shrugs.

 

“We found the cocaine behind a green hamper. Never said green or the letter ‘h’.”

 

“Mm-hmm, she said ‘blue’ and ‘yellow,’ Pheebs. I don’t know if there’s any kindergartners present,” Freddie mocks, looking around. “But those two colours combined make green.” Phoebe shifts in discomfort. He hated where this was going.

 

“She also said the letters ‘l’ and ‘b’,” Freddie adds. “And another name for a hamper is…” he trails off, waiting for Phoebe to fill in the blanks.

 

“Lady…bin?” Phoebe guesses. Then it dawns on him. “Laundry basket.” 

 

Freddie croons gently.

 

“Oh, little boo-boo. Can you go be depressed over there?” He asks, flapping his hand in the general direction of away from his desk. “You’re bumming out my whole area.” He picks up his phone and continues texting whoever he had been previously, and Phoebe shuffles away sadly.

 

 

“Baby, I’ve got some bad news,” John says through the phone, a soothing tone to try and ease the news gently to his wife. “Someone painted a giant penis on our minivan,” he gently explains. He waits a moment, his wife talking to him through the phone. Then suddenly, his eyes widen indignantly. “No, you cannot have an SUV now. Those things roll, baby! They roll!” 

 

 

“Hey, look at this, your prints are on file. Nice to meet you Trevor Podolski,” Roger greets, reading the file from his screen. The thinks for a moment. That name sounds familiar. “Oh, Podolski, just like Deputy Police Commissioner.” Realisation dawns on him, face falling. “Your father is Deputy Police Commissioner Podolski,” he sighs wearily. Trevor inspects his cuticles.

 

“I’m not sure how things work around here, but does that mean that _your_ career is in _my_ hands?” Trevor smirks like the cat that got the cream.

 

“Alright, mate, you know what?” Roger snidely remarks. “Yes.”

* * *

The evidence locker feels cramped with Phoebe, Jim, Brian and Freddie counting and weighing all the drugs they found from the perp’s apartment.

 

“Twenty point two kilos,” Brian reads from his scale. “I feel like we could round up to twenty-one,” he hums.

 

“Or,” Freddie’s melodious voice cuts in, sashaying up to the drugs, delicately running a manicured, black fingernail along one of the bags. He looks at them wistfully. “We could round down to twenty, take the extra zero point two, sell it to our friends.”

 

The others just stare at him. Freddie plucks his hand off the drugs and giggles. 

 

They all knew he wasn’t joking.

 

Brian sighs, not expecting anything less from his friend.

 

“I’ll call the D.A. Jim, you log this in. Phoebe, maybe watch Fred?” He instructs, before he leaves. Freddie laughs mischievously, eyeing the drugs still.

 

“So what are you doing tonight?” Jim asks Phoebe gruffly. 

 

“Nothing. What about you… are you doing tonight?” Phoebe’s words jumble together, his tongue not responding the way he needs it to.

 

“Nothing.” Phoebe raises his eyebrows. 

 

_This could be his chance!_

 

He spares a look at Freddie, who is holding up Carlene’s business card, and whispering, “Carlene,” long and drawn out. Jim raises an eyebrow at Freddie, and Freddie bashfully puts the card down and runs a hand through his hair, trying to appear nonchalant. 

 

“Whelp,” Phoebe begins. _Whelp?_ “I hope you find something to do,” he chuckles. Phoebe needs to get out of that room, Jim is staring at him like he’s a lunatic. “I’m going to pee. That’s what I’m doing tonight. Nope.” He blushes and speed walks straight past them, not looking at either Jim nor Freddie.

 

Freddie and Jim watch him leave, exchanging a look of bewilderment.

 

“Wow,” Freddie says. Even for Phoebe, that was pathetically strange.

 

“Is he always like this?” Jim asks. Freddie brings his lip over his teeth. 

 

“Pretty much,” he shrugs, before moving back over to the cocaine, reaching a hand out to one of the bags. Jim slaps his hand gently, and Freddie yelps. He smiles sweetly at Jim, and asks, “is there anything I can do to help?”

 

“Keep your paws off, maybe?” he says, but there’s no venom in his voice. Freddie nods, and jerks a thumb in the direction of the door. 

 

“In that case, I’m going to go back to work.”

 

Jim snorts.

 

“Yeah, like you do any work. Phoebe?” 

 

“Yeah. I’ll go make sure he hasn’t done anything stupid,” he says, and he backs out of the room. Jim smiles after him, and he shakes his head and actually goes back to his job.

* * *

“Deputy commissioner’s son, huh?” Beach hums. Roger sighs heavily, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “His decision to target cop cars makes a lot more sense now.”

 

“We gotta let him walk, right?” Roger says.

 

“He defaced nine police vehicles and got caught red-handed. Why would you do that?” Beach ridicules. 

 

Roger scoffs.

 

“Captain, I did all the work on this perfectly. I mean, my report has over twenty-five pages of meticulous research, diagrams and maps.” Roger holds up his report, and flips it over to reveal a picture of himself as he says, “I even put in an _‘About the Author’_ section on the back.”

 

He hands the file to Beach and he inspects it.

 

“I did everything you asked me to do, but this is above my pay grade. You have to make the call.”

 

Beach leans forward at his desk.

 

“You’re the arresting officer. It’s your call. I told you to do every part of your job and making this call is part of your job.”

 

“Yeah, but you think I should process him,” Roger protests.

 

Beach looks at him.

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

Roger looks around the room, refusing to make eye contact with his boss.

 

“If I do, the deputy commissioner could ruin my career and I’d end up on the street selling my beautiful body for a can of beans!”

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

Roger glares at him.

 

“Has anyone ever told you look exactly like a statue,” he mumbles darkly.

 

“Yes,” Beach replies, face barely moving.

* * *

The breakroom is filled with the sound of grunting and metal rattling as Freddie desperately reaches through the flap at the bottom of a vending machine, adamant to get the snack he _fucking paid for thank you very much._

 

Carlene and Phoebe ignore him. Phoebe is sitting on the table, nursing a cup of tea with Carlene towering over him.

 

“You were right about the cocaine,” he tells her. “You were also right about Jim.”

 

“Who’s Jim?” She cuts in.

 

“The man I-“ he begins, but Freddie is quick to jump in, having successfully retrieved his snack.

 

“The man who doesn’t love him back.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yes, that man,” Phoebe surrenders.

 

“You know, it can be a burden to always know what’s going to happen in the future,” Carlene brags, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Phoebe nods in agreement, sympathising for her. He begins to stand, and Carlene all but screeches, “Don’t get out of this chair!” 

 

She grabs his shoulders and forcefully shoves him down. Phoebe’s eyes are wide with fear. “I just had a vision of you leaving this chair and getting seriously injured.”

 

“Oh, my God,” Phoebe breathes.

 

Freddie, completely unsympathetic, says, “I should probably wheel you back to your desk.”

 

“Thank you,” Phoebe sighs.

 

“Wheel you off a bridge,” Freddie jokes, pushing the back of the chair. Phoebe whips his head back and Freddie laughs. “I’m kidding,” he says, a pleasant lilt in his voice. He starts to sing, “Oh, you’re alone, uh-oh, you’re alone for life!”

 

“Hey!” 

 

Freddie turns his head and sees Roger standing in the doorway of the briefing room, the other detectives – Jim, Brian and John - already sitting in there. Roger beckons them over, and Freddie pushes Phoebe into the room, and leaves him, going back to his desk.

 

As much as he would love to know what Roger was doing, he saw Beach in his peripheral vision and he would rather not fall sour of his boss’ sharp tongue.

 

Roger stands in front of his co-workers. The whiteboard behind him has a chart saying _‘arrest’_ and _‘don’t arrest’_.

 

“So here are my options,” Roger mournfully explains. “One, I process Podolski’s kid, he fires me and I spend the rest of my career as a detective, third grade, which is literally pathetic. Don’t tell Mary or Elton I said that.”

 

Brian raises his eyebrows, grinning at Roger’s dilemma.

 

“Option two, I let him walk and I spend the rest of my life with Beach as my babysitter.”

 

He looks around the room and sees zero sympathy from any of them. He begins to ramble to fill the silence.

 

“When I think about the rest of my life with a babysitter, she’s a cute blonde named Debbie-“

 

“Debbie Harry?” Brain supplies, and Roger winks at him.

 

“Of course. She always has pizza money and lets me stay up as late as I want.”

 

“How old are you in this situation?” Brian asks. Honestly, he doesn’t even want to know the answer, and is a little relieved when Roger just shrugs.

 

“The point is Beach cares more about the fact that I ‘do my job right,’” Roger uses air quotes around the last part of his sentence, “than whether I do my job at all. So, I’m taking suggestions.”

 

“I say piss off Beach,” Brian jests. “So we get to see your career end right in front of us.”

 

Roger glares at him, running his tongue over his teeth.

 

“Thanks for that, Brimi, I’ll put you under ‘don’t arrest’,” he mutters, turning to draw a little line under the column of _‘don’t arrest’_. “I’m also putting your phone number on every urinal in Rikers.”

 

“Don’t arrest him,” Jim speaks up. “Just smack him. Hard. With a phone book on a body part no one can see, you know?”

 

Roger bites his tongue, nodding.

 

“So you’re suggesting police brutality?” 

 

Jim laughs.

 

“Ha, I guess so, yeah, why?”

 

Roger breathes heavily and sees Mary walking past the door.

 

“Hey, Mary!”

 

Mary pops her head in the door and smiles.

 

“You want this caller?” Roger asks saccharinely. “The paper work’s all done!”

 

Her face drops.

 

“The Podolski kid? Are you kidding? I just gave him my lunch.”

 

She scurries off, and the light from Roger’s eyes fade slightly.

 

“Okay… Pheebs, what do you think?”

 

Phoebe is staring depressingly at the floor.

 

“I don’t know. I’m lost. The universe is a cruel and vexing puzzle. I’m at the whim of the cosmos.”

 

Roger stares at him flabbergasted.

 

“Alright, I’m going to put you down for ‘bummer’, and you can hang out in that category all by yourself.”

 

As soon as Roger opens his mouth, a shy, “Hi, everyone,” echoes throughout the room, and everyone turns to see Freddie standing in the doorway. “Hey, Rog,” he says. Roger looks at him. “There is a very sexy, angry official here, Deputy Commissioner Podolski.”

 

Roger hangs his head, and Freddie keeps talking, eyes glazing slightly.

 

“He’s asking for you, very angry, elderly, sexy, furious.” 

 

Freddie backs out of the room. Roger’s smile is forced. 

 

“Well, my career is over.” He walks briskly out of the room. He sees the man that Freddie was talking about standing near the kitchen.

 

“Deputy Commissioner,” he greets.

 

“Where’s my son,” Podolski grunts, not bothering to look at him.

 

“He is at my desk, enjoying a nice glass of bubbly water and some chocolate I was saving for a special occasion,” he says, hands clasped. Brian walks up to him.

 

“Hey, Rog, when you’re done, can you help me wrap up this massive cocaine bust I just pulled off? Thanks.” Brian turns, pretending to just notice the Deputy Police Commissioner standing there.

 

Fake bitch.

 

“Oh, Deputy Commissioner, didn’t see you there! Sorry for interrupting. Brian May,” he introduces, and stalks of, like the big fucking Ent he his.

 

Roger sighs, and Podolski struts past him and towards his son.

 

“Trevor, what’d you do this time?” He says unimpressed.

 

“Nothing,” Trevor lies. He stands and Podolski defends his son.

 

“There you have it, he said he did nothing.”

 

“So I caught him red-handed doing ‘nothing’?” Roger grits, clenching his fists.

 

“I’m saying it’s a possibility you made a mistake,” Podolski drawls. 

 

“Normally, I would agree with you,” Roger says, attempting to mediate and calm himself down. “But I’ve been pretty detailed-oriented the last few hours.”

 

“You might not understand,” Podolski says, the promise of danger lacing his voice. “Trevor is a special kid. He makes straight A’s. He’s going to Duke next year on a lacrosse scholarship. Sometimes, boys just need to be boys.”

 

Roger is fuming, and he knows he has to push it down. He cannot afford to lose his temper with such a high ranking officer.

 

“You do realise he did thousands of dollars’ worth of property damage, though, to _police_ vehicles.”

 

“Look,” Podolski says, and by God does Roger want to just throw a punch or do something. “I think we can all agree that I’m ordering you to let it slide. Because nothing happened. This is officially out of your hands.”

 

Roger wrings his wrists, and leans past them to pick up and hand over the police report about Trevor’s crimes.

 

“Would you mind just checking out my report? It’s pretty thorough and I spent over an hour-“

 

It’s snatched from his hands, and Podolski lets out a stiff sure, giving Roger a tight lipped smile. They turn and leave, and as Roger watches them go Podolski not-so-subtly dumps his report in John’s rubbish bin.

 

John looks up at Roger speechless, a spoon of yoghurt halfway to his mouth and Roger tugs a handful of his hair, grinding his teeth in frustration.

* * *

Phoebe wheels his way to the fridge, opening it and looking inside. Before he can reach for his lunch, he is started by Jim’s voice.

 

“What’s up with the chair?”

 

He looks up at him. He knew Jim thought Carlene was a fraud, and didn’t want to embarrass himself, but he also knew he couldn’t lie.

 

“Um, Carlene predicted if I got out of this chair, I’d get badly hurt, so I’m not chancing it.”

 

He peers back into the fridge, and Jim rolls his eyes, punching Phoebe in the arm really hard. Phoebe flinches in pain, arms staring to water.

 

“What-?”

 

Jim leans close to his face.

 

“There. Now you’re hurt _in_ this chair. You can get hurt anywhere, Phoebe. And if you do, it won’t be because some shoe salesman predicted it.”

 

Phoebe swallows heavily, looking at the floor. He chances a glance up at Jim, and sees that he’s smiling.

 

“You make your own destiny.”

 

Jim walks back to his desk, and Phoebe smiles, rubbing his sore arm.

* * *

Roger storms into Beach’s office.

 

“Well, we don’t have to worry about Podolski’s _fucking_ son anymore,” he seethes, slamming his report on Beach’s desk. “The case is officially out of my hands. No. Charges. Filed.”

 

“Why is there yoghurt on this?” Beach asks, confused.

 

“The Deputy Commissioner had thrown my report into John’s rubbish bin, and he’d been eating yoghurt earlier.”

 

Beach chuckles.

 

“Huh, John loves yoghurt.”

 

Roger folds his arms, sulking slightly.

 

“Something wrong?” 

 

“Kinda, yeah,” Roger admits. “I called six precincts about this kid. He’s been brought in a dozen times. Theft, vandalism, drunk and disorderly,” he counts off his fingers. “He’s _never_ been processed! Every time his dad comes in and bails him out. He’s a lucky fucking git.”

 

Beach ignores Roger’s foul mouth.

 

“I wouldn’t say he’s lucky. If anything, I feel bad for this kid.”

 

“Excuse me?” Roger growls.

 

“What kind of father cares so little for his son that he lets him get away with anything?”

 

Roger contemplates this.

 

“Well, he’s someone else’s problem now. Like you said, it’s out of your hands.”

 

“Alright, I see what you’re trying to do, but it’s not going to work. I’m not going to arrest him,” he says. It takes less than three seconds for Roger to concede and say, “I’m going to arrest him!”

 

“You want back-up?” Beach offers.

 

_“Yes.”_

 

 

They manage to find Podolski and Trevor not far from the precinct. They’re in a vandalised car and Podolski immediately steps out of his car, anger written all over his face. Roger and Beach step out of their car.

 

“What is this? You can’t do this. Get that thing out of here!”

 

Trevor gets out of the car too, to see what the drama is.

 

“Excuse me sir,” Roger says, eyeing Trevor. He grabs Trevor’s arm and handcuffs him, and Trevor begins to protest immediately.

 

“Trevor Podolski, you’re under arrest for vandalism and destruction of property.”

 

“Dad!” Trevor cries.

 

“What are you doing? I told you to back off, Taylor,” Podolski says, steeping forward intimidatingly.

 

“First off, the name’s May, Detective Brian May. And second, I’m arresting your son, which, as I say it out loud, seems like an unwise decision, but it’s the one I’m making.” He looks at Beach, and Beach nods encouragingly, giving Roger the strength to complete his task. “Once again, my name is Brian May!”

 

“You’re being stupid, Taylor, don’t be stupid,” Podolski says condescendingly, but not extremely perturbed that his son is being arrested. “I can make your life miserable.”

 

“Commissioner, please don’t talk to my detective in that tone,” Beach says, stepping in, protecting Roger. “If you have a complaint you can take it up with me.”

 

“You just made yourself a very powerful enemy, Beach. I’m going to be watching you, both of you, like a hawk.”

 

“You have to try a little harder to scare me. I’ve been an openly gay cop since nineteen eighty-seven, so you’re not the first superior officer to threaten me. You know how I’m still standing here?” He asks. Podolski just glares at him. “Because I do my job, and I do it right.”

 

“Damn, son!” Roger cheers.

 

“Don’t say son.”

 

“Sorry.” Roger turns to Podolski. “Deputy Commissioner, if you want to pick Trevor up, he’ll be at the three-nine.”

 

Roger walks Trevor to the car.

 

“Let’s go, Fartman.”

* * *

The following morning, the briefing room is filled with quiet, idle chatter. Phoebe’s standing in the doorway, blocking entrance, Freddie standing beside him, but actually inside the room. Phoebe murmurs to Freddie, “Carlene was wrong. Jim said it himself, I’m in charge of my own destiny. That means he wants me to make a move.”

 

“Mm, but Carlene was also right. You did get hurt because Jim punched you. And the fact that Jim punched you means he does not like you.”

 

“No, no, he punched me to prove Carlene wrong-!”

 

“Move!” Jim barked, and Phoebe quickly averted his stance so Jim could push past him.

 

“Oh, wait, I take it back. He definitely is into you. _So_ much chemistry,” Freddie says, eyes wide and innocent.

 

“I know, it’s crazy!”

 

They make their way to their respective chairs, Freddie’s eyes rolling back into his skull.

 

“Alright, let’s get this meeting started,” Beach commands. A bleeping sound rings out, and everyone looks at the tent placed in the corner of the room. The flap unzips and Roger   
stumbles out in a pair of mismatched pyjamas. “I’m not late, I’m here!”

 

Beach stares incredulously and Freddie snickers into his palm.

 

Roger looks at his watch. 

 

“Right on time,” he says quietly.

 

“You’re out of uniform, Taylor.”

 

“Baby steps, Captain, Baby steps.”

 

Roger claps Beach on the shoulder, and Beach watches gobsmacked as Roger sits down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading. typing these make my fingers hurt, so spare me a comment? 
> 
>  
> 
> see you next time xx


	3. The Slump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Roger starts accumulating unsolved cases, the other detectives worry his losing streak will rub off on them; Brian, Jim and Freddie run a program for at-risk youth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not going to do every single episode i promise...
> 
> also is it obvious im trying to make jimercury a thing sksk
> 
> its going to get more original the more i diverge from canon dw
> 
> also i cut out the terry building a toy castle and boyle fixing bc this is like really long already and i couldnt be fucked typing it oop

"For the last time, the best cop movies, Training day, lethal weapon, and Fargo. End of discussion.”

 

“Wrong.” Roger interjects as Brian finished speaking. "Die hard is the best cop movie of all time. One cop heroically saving the day while everyone else stands around and watches. It's the story of my life!”

 

Brian scoffs and Phoebe smiles around his mug of tea.

 

“I like Turner & Hooch. Tom Hanks, reluctant friendship with a dog. That hits me where I live.”

 

Jim is standing next to Phoebe and he has is arms crossed. He needs to set these people straight.

 

“No. Robocop. It's got everything I like. Gratuitous violence,”

 

Everyone waits for Jim to continue, but as he sips from his own cup Roger realises what he just did.

 

“Oh, I thought you were listing things,” Roger mumbles.

 

“I was. I'm done.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Let's talk bad boys. That's the perfect cop movie,” Freddie chimes, cradling his tea delicately and gazing wistfully out the window, looking at something nobody else seems to be  
able to see.

 

“Mr. Smith, lookin' fine,” he continues. “A hot cup of tea Leone. Come on!”

 

John decides to put his own two cents in too.

 

“Francois Truffaut's breathless.”

 

Everybody stares at him, slightly aghast.

 

“What? I like foreign films,” he defends. Roger swings around in his chair and begins to type away at his computer as he speaks.

 

“Mm-kay. There is a correct answer to this question, though. So gather around for the greatest cop film of all time. Please refrain from texting during our presentation.”

 

Everyone crowds behind him, looking at his screen. 

 

Excuse me, ma'am – Comes tinnily from the screen and Roger helpfully narrates the proceedings of the video.

 

“All right, so there's Elton. And there's an old hooker -There it is!”

 

Roger says as the said hooker kicks Elton’s dick – hard. Freddie cackles and John hisses in sympathy.

 

“Come on, guys, that happened four years ago,” Elton protests. However, Roger is quick to shush him.

 

“This is the best part. Takes the wallet and here she goes!” 

 

Everybody is now laughing as the lady steals Elton’s wallet and kicks him again.

* * *

“Hey, love the sweater.”

 

Phoebe blushes at the compliment and Roger sets his things down next to him.

 

“Who you slayin' tonight, lady killer?”

 

“Well, we shall see what we shall see,” Phoebe grins, rubbing his hands together playfully.

 

“No, you're dressed exactly like the lady killer,” Roger informs him, pointing at a _WANTED_ poster where the suspect is dressed in exactly the same sweater.

 

“Damn it,” Phoebe groans. “This is Jeffrey Dahmer's corduroys all over again.”

 

“All right, let's get started,” John says, a hush falling over the room immediately. “Mary. Where are you on digitizing the old case files?”

 

“As of yesterday, I'm officially 1% done,” Mary beams, giving John a thumbs up. John is decidedly not impressed.

 

“Why are you smiling? That's nothing!”

 

Mary immediately defends herself.

 

“There are thousands of cases, and for each one, I have to fill out on 50 different screens!”

 

“At least you get to sit on your butt all day,” Jim narks from across the room. 

 

Mary contemplates this, then nods in agreement and leans back in her chair.

 

“Roger, where are we on the Adams street burglary?” Beach raises his eyebrows at the young man adamantly. Roger gives him a grin.

 

“We are very close, Captain. Aside from a complete absence of evidence, suspects, or leads. So, in conclusion, not at all close.”

 

“And the Vickers street aggravated assault?” Beach presses.

 

“Stalled out, and the Calloway robbery also remains unsolved, due to a lack of solving it by me.”

 

“Sounds like someone's in a little bit of a slump,” Freddie hums, smirking. Roger whips around to face is colleague and friend.

 

“I'm not in a slump,” he growls.

 

“You're not?” Brian’s voice rings out, and when Roger looks at him, he arches an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Scoreboard.”

 

The results are horrible. Roger is losing 35 to 44.

 

“I don't slump, people,” Roger says. “I opposite slump. I p-muls. That's "slump" backwards, and it's what I do. I p-muls all over this bitch!”

 

“Dismissed,” John calls.

 

“Slump,” Brian can’t help but tease.

 

“P-muls!”

* * *

Beach strolls past Roger’s desk, and Roger calls out to him as soon as they make eye contact, immediately vying for attention.

 

“Wait before you say anything, I want to guess what happened, based on your face.”

 

Beach remained stone faced, tilting his head like a curious bird. Roger bit his lip, thinking.

 

“Someone died.”

 

When that gauged no reaction, Roger tried again.

 

“No! You won a prize! I'm not getting better at this.”

 

“I'm concerned that the open cases mound of garbage on your desk has become so much higher than the closed cases - mound of garbage,” Beach drawls.

 

“All right, sir.” Roger ducked his head, slightly embarrassed. Regaining composure, he cleared his throat and continued. “Let me hit you with a little analogy. Are you familiar with race cars?”

 

“Formula 1 or stock?”

 

“That's already way more than I know about it.” He scrunched his eyebrows. A car was a car, wasn’t it? A beautiful, sleek, gleaming machine….

 

Roger shook his head as if to shake the cobwebs away.

 

“The point is, I'm a super-awesome race car who's hit a couple of unlucky speed bumps.”

 

“You got speed bumps on a race track?”

 

“Is that not part of car racing? It should be. All I'm saying is, it's open road again. I'm about to close a case. Missing grandma Helen Sterrino. Last Sunday, her grandson Judd reported she went out for bagels and never came back. This morning, we picked up an old lady matching her description exactly. I showed her pictures of Judd, and she said, and I quote, ‘That's my grandson.’

 

Towards the end of that, Roger pitched his voice to a high, croaky tenor, and Beach shot him a withering glare.

 

"What did I say about doing voices?”

 

“I'm a storyteller, sir. It's my craft. Anyways, grandson's coming in. They reunite, and I throw another case on the old ‘solved it’ pile.”

 

As he says this, he aimlessly chucks the file he’s holding into his, as he calls it, _solved it_ pile, and the sheer brute force of the paper causes it all to tumble off his desk, paper flying everywhere. Beach inhales heavily in frustration, but Roger is too captivated to notice, spotting a croissant on his desk that had once been hidden by the pile of paperwork.

 

“Hey, my croissant!”

 

He reaches for it happily, taking a swift bite and beaming at his boss. Beach walks into his office, ignoring the detective completely.

* * *

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

 

Brian walks purposefully into Beach’s office, halting in front of his desk.

 

“Yes, the D.A. wanted me to personally thank you for your work on the Jay street drug bust.”

 

“That's why we do this, sir.” Brian smiled warmly.

 

“For praise?” Beach arched an eyebrow.

 

“Uh…” Brian faltered, unsure how to amend his mistake.

 

“There's a community outreach program that's very important to me,” Beach proceeded. “I was wondering if you'd like to head it up.”

 

Brian nodded enthusiastically.

 

“Absolutely, sir. I won't just head it up, I will head and shoulders it up. I will dive in, swim around it, and just be altogether good with it.” Brian knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t help it. He felt himself shrivel under the captain’s intense gaze.

 

“Be more articulate when you speak to the children.”

 

“Yes, sir, I will make better mouth.” Brian realised what he just said, and hung his head in humiliation. God was he glad Roger wasn’t here. Or Freddie. They would never let him live this down.

* * *

“Hi, Jim.” Brian approached Jim’s desk, smiling warmly. “Ooh, I like your shoes. They're a really pretty –“

 

“What do you need?”

 

“- Colour.” Brian cleared his throat. “Okay. You know how, every year, the precinct does that Junior police program seminar?”

 

“That thing where we try to get a bunch of loser kids to become student snitches?” Jim asked.

 

“No, the thing where we try to get at-risk kids –“

 

“Losers.”

 

“- To sign up to become Junior police officers.”

 

“Snitches.”

 

Brian rolled his eyes.

 

“What about it?”

 

Brian started beaming as he spoke, one hundred percent boasting.

 

“Captain specifically asked me to run it this year. I signed you up to do it with me. Here's the info.”

 

He handed Jim a file. Jim groans.

 

“Now I gotta read something?” 

 

They’re interrupted by a melodious voice.

 

“Greetings,” Freddie beamed, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Before either of the detectives can reply, Freddie barrels on. “Fine. I guess I can help you with those at-risk kids.” He leans against the edge of Jim’s desk. Jim eyes the numerous rings that adorn his fingers, zeroing on one that – is that a _cat?_

 

Jim scoffs when he realises what Freddie had suggested and Freddie’s eyes widen, taken aback. Brian nudges Jim and smiles at Freddie in an attempt to mediate.

 

“I don't need your help.” 

 

Freddie raises his eyebrows and folds his arms, a perfectly manicured fingernail tapping his elbow expectantly.

 

“It's nothing personal, it's just You're not a cop, so I'm not really sure - you could help.”

 

“Okay.” Freddie’s grin is forced as he speaks, eyes cold. “No hard feelings. But I hate you. Not joking. Bye.”

 

He turns and sashays back to his desk, huffing irritably. Brian rolls his eyes and turns back to Jim, who watches Freddie leave.

* * *

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Terrino. I'm glad you're here. May I present to you-“

 

“Oh, my darlings.”

 

Beach observes as Roger reunites an old lady with her ‘children’.

 

“Thank God I found you. Oh, look at those beautiful cheeks.”

 

The man eyes Roger wearily.

 

“I have no idea who this lady is. I've never seen her before in my life.”

 

Roger splutters, confused.

 

“What? No, she recognized you. This is Helen.”

 

“Who's Helen?” The old lady asks. Then she notices Phoebe standing nearby and focuses on him instead. “Oh! That's my husband. Solomon!”

 

She hugs Phoebe tightly, and he immediately back-peddles. 

 

“I'm I'm not really her husband.”

 

“You're so much shorter than you used to be. What did the Japanese do to you?” She asks concerned, holding Phoebe’s cheeks gingerly. 

 

“Different generation,” Roger mumbles.

 

Phoebe holds his hand in the air, taking a step back from her.

 

“Okay, this is Ethel Musterberg from the prospect heights senior centre. There was an I.D.  
card in her back pocket.”

 

He holds out her I.D., and Roger makes a face.

 

“Why was your hand in her back pocket?” John asks from his desk, which they were standing in front of. A disgruntled expression crossed with confusion and disgust paints his face and he is holding the phone halfway to his ear. Roger hopes that no one was on the other line. 

 

“Well, she told me she didn't have any I.D., and, unlike Phoebe, my first instinct was not to caress her butt,” Roger explains.

 

“Frisked! I frisked her butt!”

 

“It looks like this case remains unsolved, Roger.” Beach stalks away and realisation dawns on Roger’s face.

 

“Oh, my God. I'm in a slump!”

* * *

“Oh, cool. You're all here in the break room,” Roger says, looking up as if to just realise everyone was there coincidentally.

 

“You asked us to come in here,” Jim says and Roger glares at him for a second.

 

“What? Here's a hypothetical question. Let's say I knew someone that, for the first time in their career, was experiencing, like, a minor slump. What do you think you would suggest to that person if they were going through that?”

 

“Well, I haven't really been in a slump since my divorce,” Phoebe says. “So I'd tell this person, ‘maybe get divorced.’ He'd have to get married first.”

 

“Okay, so the suggestion to beat is get married and then divorced.” Roger’s hopeful eyes scan the room. “Fred?” 

 

“Fly to Montreal, hit a classy hotel bar, bone a stranger, slump over,” he purrs, stirring his cup of tea. Roger’s eyes light up.

 

“Wow, that sounds amazing.”

 

“Yeah, it is,” Freddie hums. He takes a sip from his mug.

 

“That's a good one. Deaks, what would you do?”

 

“Take some time off and spend it with my wife,” he says. “Maybe a trip to Bali?”

 

“Okay, do you have a backup plan in case my hypothetical person doesn’t-“

 

“What's going on in here?”

 

Everyone turns to see Beach standing in the doorway.

 

“We're helping Roger’s friend got out of his slump,” Phoebe supplies. Beach’s voice is firm and crisp.

 

“Or try working a case until it's solved. I always find that closing cases is the best way to end the slump.” He looks at Roger pointedly, then leaves the room.

 

“Thank you, Captain!” Roger calls with faux enthusiasm.

 

“He's right,” John reasons. “You just need a win. Pick your easiest, no-brainer case, and work it till it's done.”

 

“Fine!” Roger concedes. “Right after I do Freddie's Montreal sex thing. That sounds fun.”

 

“Yeah,” Freddie grins, holding his hand out to Roger who takes it, the loud clap of a high five ringing through the room.

* * *

“Okay, this is the Junior police program. Aka _mission possible_."

 

The Mission Impossible theme plays in the briefing room, Brian grooving awkwardly in front of a room of twenty odd teens. They stare up at him, unimpressed.

 

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to get your life back on track.”

 

“Eugh, narc!”

 

Brian whips his head up to see Freddie walk into the room, cradling yet another mug. The teens all laugh with Freddie.

 

“Hey, Freddie,” Brian nervously chitters. What are you doing?”

 

“Oh, hi, Brian,” Freddie smirks, faking ignorance, as if just noticing him. “Since I have nothing to offer, and since I'm not a cop, I thought I'd just show up and learn.” He shrugs, sitting on a window sill, sipping his tea sassily.

 

“Do you wanna help me out here?” Brian turns to Jim, who’s standing behind him.

 

“Nah, I think I'm good.”

 

Brian sighs, then turns back to the teens.

 

“I know you think getting in trouble is cool. But let me show you what can happen if you continue down this path.”

 

He deepens his voice and throws around his hands in an attempt to imitate the stereotype of an at-risk kid.

 

“Hey, yo, I'm an at-risk kid, and I think it's cool to sell drugs.”

 

One of the teens raises his hand, looking offended.

 

“Hold up why does the kid selling drugs sound like he's black?”

 

Brian’s eyes widen in fear.

 

“He's not-”

 

“Well, why not?” Freddie chimes, arching an eyebrow. “Are you saying that black people _can't_ sell drugs?”

 

“No, I'm not saying that-“

 

“We have a black President,” another kid adds. “Why can't black people sell drugs?”

 

“I'm so confused,” Brian mumbles.

 

_What the fuck is going on?_

 

“Black people _can_ sell drugs! Black people can sell drugs!” Freddie chants. One by one the teens join in, and soon the whole room is filled with a cacophonous chorus of, 

 

_“Black people can sell drugs! Black people can sell drugs! Black people can sell drugs! Black people can sell drugs!”_

 

Beach pokes his head in the door to see what all the noise is, and Brian offers him a meek thumbs up. The captain backs away.

* * *

“Why would I swap cases with you? I got multiple calls that a guy in the sackett towers is dealing meth out of his apartment. It's a guaranteed arrest.”  
Detective Elton blows Roger off, and by God if Roger isn’t becoming desperate at this point.

 

“And therefore will have a ton of paperwork, which I know you hate. I have a murder here with no leads and no evidence. It's unsolvable, and thus shall have no paperwork.”

 

Elton grins.

 

“You had me at no paperwork."

 

Roger furrows his brows.

 

“That was the very end of the sentence.”

 

He turns and gently hits Phoebe on the head with the file.

 

“All right, Phoebe. Let's hit it.” 

 

Phoebe stands and they take about two steps towards the exit before they are stopped by the captain.

 

"So where are you going, Roger?”

 

Roger grins at him.

 

“I am on my way to ending the slump.”

 

“So you haven't solved any of your old cases, and yet you've taken on a new one. I mean, shouldn't you at least solve this Helen Sterrino missing grandmother case first?”  
Roger points a finger at the new file in his hand.

 

“Or I could solve the super easy one, get my mojo back.” He turns to Phoebe. “Let's go.”

* * *

“Ah. I did not think getting these kids to sign up would be this hard.” 

 

Brian rubs his forehead aggressively. Jim is quick to jump in.

 

“These kids don't wanna listen to you. You're like, smart and articulate.”

 

“So are you!” Brian cries. He does a double take. “Why am I offended by that?”

 

“They don't identify with you because you're not from the streets. I am. Follow, watch, learn.”

 

Brian watches with shining eyes as Jim shoulders past him and calls attention to the teens, shutting them up quickly.

 

“All right, listen up.”

 

They all look at him half attentively, not at all intimidated by the big, dark, scary Irishman.

 

“I know you think you're badasses. But deep down, you're scared. How do I know? Because I've been that same scared kid. And if you don't get your crap together, I'm gonna end up busting you and throwing you in jail. Got it?”

 

One of the kids in the front row holds his phone up, grinning.

 

“Remix, yo!”

 

A dubstep beat with _Throwing you in jail Throwing you in jail Got it? Throwing you in jail_ reverberates through the room, and the room erupts in laughter.  
“What's happening?” Jim asks, eyes wide. Brian steps next to him, whispering in his ear.

 

“I think they're laughing at you.”

 

“That's never happened before.” Jim's lower lip wobbles, eyes tearing slightly, and there’s a definite tremor when he says, “I don't like it.”

* * *

Roger, Phoebe and a squad of police officers are crowded in a small hallway outside his newest cases’ apartment. Roger counts down quietly, and they bust the door open.

 

“Freeze! NYPD, hands where I can see them.”

 

An old man in a bathrobe holding a flute shrieks, hands up immediately. About twenty domesticated birds fill the room.

 

“Don't shoot!” He pleads. “I was just practicing my minuets, but I'll hold it down.”

 

“All right, flute man, who else is in this apartment?” Roger scowls, not lowering his gun. “Where's the dealer?”

 

The old man splutters. 

 

“I live here alone with my birds.”

 

“What, you don't think I know this M.O.? These are mules.” Roger scoffs. “They're drug mules. They're bird mule drugs. Drug bird mules.”

 

“Apartment's clear,” a random officer notifies him.

 

“We got multiple calls about a dealer here,” Roger says.

 

“I bet it's the silly kids down the hall. They love prank calling me,” the old man clarifies. “The only drugs in this apartment are for my heart, my liver, my kidney, my salivary glands, and my penis and my feet.”

 

Roger grimaces and stomps his foot in frustration. Phoebe notices something white on Roger’s jacket.

 

“Oh, bird pooped on your shoulder,” he points, and Roger groans in disgust. “No, wait Pooped on your head, then dripped onto your shoulder.”

 

Roger gags, stuck between a rock and a hard place. He desperately wanted the jumper off him, but he didn’t want the shit in his hair to drip onto his clean clothes.

 

“Fucking shit!” He yells.

* * *

“I'm telling you, it's good luck!”

 

Phoebe’s attempts to placate Roger are not working in the slightest.

 

“No, it isn't, okay? That's just something people say when a bird poops on you to make you feel better because it's terrible,” Roger complains.

 

“Fore, comin' in!” Elton yells, a man in handcuffs behind him.

 

“Oh, come on,” Roger whines.

 

“I was at the crime scene,” Elton elaborates. “This guy comes up out of nowhere, confesses. Well, he says he's gotta make things right, so helps me track down his accomplices.”

 

“That is so great, man,” Roger seethes, gritting his teeth. “Looks like everything's comin' up Elton.”

* * *

Roger is alone in the bathroom, in front of a urinal doing his business thank you very much, when a hushed,

 

“Hey, Roggie.” 

 

Garners his attention.

 

“You busy?” Freddie whispers. He steps into the bathroom.

 

“Yes, I very clearly am busy,” Roger says, rolling his eyes. Freddie clasped his hands together and winces in sympathy.

 

“The medical examiner's office just called,” he croons soothingly, knowing the upcoming information will anger his friend.

 

Roger awaits what will follow, but he has a sinking feeling in his stomach.

 

“They mishandled some evidence. So the D.A.'s gonna have to dismiss your last two busts.”

 

“Great.” Roger could not be more frustrated if he tried. He aggressively zips up his jeans, reaching out to flush. “And the slump gets worse.”

 

“I don't think it's a slump. Honestly, you are straight-up cursed.”

 

“Good to know.” He pulls the lever, and the entire urinal pipe bursts, dousing Roger in toilet water. He just stands there and takes it, ignoring Freddie’s shriek of disgust as he scurries to lean against the wall.

 

Eventually the spraying stops and Roger remains still, dripping wet.

 

“Can you hand me a paper towel, please, Fred?”

 

Freddie reaches for the paper towel dispenser, but it’s empty, a sign that says

 

_Please fill me!_

 

Hastily taped on.

 

“There's no more left,” Freddie says unhelpfully.

 

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

* * *

“Hey.”

 

Roger knocks on the captain’s door without waiting to be granted access-

 

_If he wasn’t allowed in why would he have the door open?_

 

-standing before his boss, Phoebe following.

 

“You're dripping on my carpet.”

 

“Oh, don't worry, sir. It's just urinal water,” Roger reassures, and Beach frowns in revulsion.

 

“Clean urinal water,” Phoebe cuts in. “You could eat off his shirt.”

 

“Why would I ever eat off his shirt?”

 

“Look, sir, I don't know what's going on, but I think I'm cursed,” Roger says.

 

“Cursed, huh?”

 

“The freakiest things have been happening to me. I mean, I can't solve a case to save my life. Birds are unloading on me left and right. Cursed.”

 

“Yeah, I've seen this kind of thing before,” Beach hums. “It happened to a friend of mine back in the 1-8. Detective Smith. We called him Smitty. He thought he was cursed, and because cops are superstitious, the whole precinct thought he was cursed.”

 

“But then he found a case, and he solved it, and now he's married to Kate Upton?” Roger finishes hopefully.

 

“No. No one would go out on calls with him. He responded to a riot at a gym without backup, and got beaten up by a girls' volleyball team. It was actually quite violent.”

 

“Man. Girls are so scary.” Phoebe shudders.

 

“I don't want you out in the field again, Roger. I'm pulling you from casework. You can digitize old files with Scully.”

 

“You're benching me? No, no, no, look I've got a plan.” Roger protests. “Give all my open cases to Elton, who's suddenly on a roll, and assign me to any fresh ones. Eventually, my luck will turn.”

 

“No, I don't think that's what's best for you or the squad. Not until this blows over.”

 

“And how long will that be?” Roger asks tentatively.

 

“Could be a week, could be a month.”

 

“Could be a year,” Phoebe adds. “Could be a decade. Sorry, we're just saying bigger and bigger numbers.”

* * *

“I don't know how to connect with these kids.” Brian wails. “They're mean and shallow and respect nothing. I mean, what kind of person would they even listen to?”

 

They’re standing near Brian’s desk, and from across the bullpen they hear,

 

“Elton, stop bringing your food in little Tupperware containers. It hurts my fingers when I'm trying to open it!”

 

“Sorry!” Elton says.

 

Jim and Brian look at each other, then dash across to where Freddie is standing, working on opening Elton’s food.

 

“Hey, Freddie,” Brian says saccharinely. “That's a super cute-“

 

“What do you want?” Freddie snaps.

 

“Sweater. Okay. Jim and I think it would be great if you talked to the kids.”

 

“Mm, I thought only cops could help.” Freddie rolls his eyes, turning to walk away. Jim reaches out and grabs his arm. Freddie looks at his hand, then up at Jim. 

 

“In this case, not being a cop might actually be better,” Jim mumbles, leaning close to Freddie’s ear.

 

“Mm, that's true in all cases, cops are the worst.” He daintily plucks Jim’s hand from his arm and basks in Jim and Brian’s ashamed faces.

* * *

"Enter the numbers from this report into the corresponding boxes on the screen. Then fill out these fields. And I'm in a coma.”

 

Roger can barely keep his eyes open when he notices Elton walking past his desk.

 

“Hey, Elton. Help me out, mate, I'm so bored. Let me jump back on that murder with you.”

 

“No. I got it,” Elton reassures.

 

“Come on, mate, let me just-“

 

“No, don't touch it! You're contagious. Everything could fall apart!” He snarls, scurrying to the safety of his desk.

 

“Roger, leave him alone! Come here.”

 

Roger spins to find Captain Beach striding towards him. Roger meets him in the middle and the captain lowers his voice.

 

“I got in touch with smitty. He says that you should rub this rabbit's foot with your left forefinger and your pinky, like this, for good luck.” He holds out a rabbit’s foot and demonstrates how to stroke it. He holds it out to Roger. “Okay? Now you try it.”

 

Roger takes it from him and starts to rub it between his fingers.

 

“Okay. Yep. It's definitely helping.”

 

Beach smirks and walks away. Roger continues to talk to himself.

 

“I can feel it. The curse is lifting off of me. Ah, hand cramp!”

 

His hand is locked in a claw and he massages it with his other hand in an attempt to soothe the pain.

 

He sits back at his desk and continues to digitalise the files. After a few minutes he has an epiphany and flicks through the files on his desk and stand up. He freezes when he sees Beach watching him.

 

“Hey, just heading to the can,” he says.

 

“Take the rabbit's foot.”

 

Roger nods and hurries to the bathroom. He is accompanied by a very confused Phoebe.

 

“What's going on?” He asks.

 

“Well, I'm not allowed to leave my desk, so we have to meet in here. I need you to make these calls for me.” He hands Phoebe a sheet of paper. “Don't let Beach see you. But if my hunch is right, the slump is over. Come through for me, Pheebs.”

 

“You know I will.” His eyes gleam as he dashes from the room.

* * *

“Children, your problem is not that you're troubled or at-risk or bad dressers. Is that a trucker hat? Still? Come on.” 

 

The kid Freddie is pointing at takes his hat off awkwardly.

 

“Your problem Is that you don't have passion for anything. My life turned around when I found my passion. And today, well, I hope to inspire you with it.”

 

He presses a button on his phone and music begins to play. A song no one had heard before began to play and Freddie hummed with it, swaying gently.

 

A hand is raised and Freddie pauses the song.

 

“What are we thinking? Yes, in the denim.”

 

“I think I speak for everyone when I say your weird song was just weird.”

 

“It’s an _original!_ ” Freddie gasps. With the unimpressed looks he received, he sighs.

 

“Fine. Cops make $52,000 a year. You never have to stop at a red light. And you get to carry a gun. Who wants in?”

 

Half of the hands in the room go up.

 

“Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom!” Freddie points at them, grinning. “Yes.”

 

“Oh, my God. You got eight kids to sign up. How did you know that would work?” Brian asks, amazed.

 

“That's what made me sign up when I was a kid.”

 

“You did this program?” Jim asks.

 

“Mm-hmm. Yeah. It does not work.”

 

Brian nods his head and faces the kids, handing then information letters.

* * *

“They're here,” Phoebe chimes. Behind him trail Mr. and Mrs. Terrino. Roger kicks the bathroom stall door he was hiding behind open.

 

“Fantastic. Too dramatic?”

 

“No,” Phoebe reassures.

 

“Hi,” Roger addresses the two guests.

 

“Why are we in the bathroom?” Mr Terrino questions.

 

“I thought you might ask that, and I will answer in due time.” Roger says. “But first, I know what happened to your grandma.” A dramatic pause, then- “Nothing.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Mrs Terrino asks, stepping forward.

 

“The reason I couldn't find her is because she never existed. I had Detective Freestone make some calls, and it turns out you've done this before. Five missing persons reports in five different states. Recognise this?” He holds up the various reports.

 

“What are you accusing us of?” Mr Terrino asks, arms crossed.

 

“Probably insurance fraud. Definitely filing a false report and obstruction of justice. Now, you were wondering why we did this in the bathroom. It's because you're full of crap.”

 

“Blammo!” Phoebe cheers.

* * *

“Detectives.” Brian and Jim turn when they are addressed, and they walk over to Beach, standing right outside his office. “I see we got eight recruits for the Junior police program. Outstanding.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” Brian smiles. “But, as important as your praise is to me, it should actually go to Freddie.” He indicates to said person who is sitting at his desk which the other three are gathered around. “He's the one that got through to the kids.”

 

“Yes, I am amazing,” Freddie says seriously. He turns to Beach. “And I only ask for one thing in repayment. A 600% raise.”

 

“Or I can give you a zero percent raise and make you my personal assistant, which is what I'm doing. I think you have hidden talents, which will make you surprisingly good the job.”

 

Freddie’s eyes widen comically. 

 

_He doesn’t want the extra workload!_

 

“No, I have no talents-“ he protests but is cut off.

 

“You start Monday.” Beach retreats into his office.

 

“Ugh,” Freddie groans. “Constantly getting Beach's approval is the worst.”

 

“Yes.” Brian agrees sarcastically. “I can only imagine.”

* * *

“Well, the curse is over. The slump is done. Roger is back!” He grins, strolling into Beach’s office to behind his desk, next to his boss himself. “Permission to take a selfie of the two of us, sir?

 

“Permission denied.”

 

“Too late.”

 

He holds his phone up and snaps a picture – Roger grinning widely, Beach remaining stone faced.

 

“Ah, that was a good one.”

 

“So, the rabbit's foot worked, huh?”

 

“Ah, maybe.” Roger conceded. He scratched the back of his head. “All I know is my mind was so numb from doing all that boring data entry that my brain kind of rebooted, and I had an inspiration about one of my old cases.”

 

Beach nodded, smiling knowingly.

 

“And I now see that that was your plan all along. And that you're capable of smiling.”

 

“All talented detectives have their ups and downs.”

 

Roger’s eyes go wide and he positively beams.

 

“So you think I'm talented. You said it. No takebacks!”

 

“You know why Phoebe doesn't slump?” Beach asks, and Roger grins.

 

“Because his whole life is a slump?”

 

“Because he doesn't let adversity get him down.” Beach stares Roger down. “He keeps grinding. If I'd given you those new cases, the second you hit a snag, you would have spiralled again. You need to stay out of your own head.”

 

Roger shakes his head. “Okay. But, sir, I don't get it. If that was your plan, why bother with smitty and the rabbit's foot?”

 

“Well, there's a very good reason for that.” Beach steps forward. “I was, uh, I believe the term is, uh, messing with you.”

 

“Oh I see what's going on here.” Roger smiles widely, getting excited. “We're becoming homies. Office Christmas card candidate, right here! Me and Holt are homies!”

 

“No we aren’t. Get back to work.”


	4. The Vulture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger vows to get revenge when a detective from Special Crimes takes over his nearly solved murder case; Captain Beach and Freddie help John.

“Hey, you guys see the dude I brought in today; the drug dealer?” Roger slumped into his chair, grinning up at Jim and Brian; Brian sitting in his own chair, Jim standing beside him as they converse. They listen, interest piqued. “Eighty-one years old. I think it's the oldest collar of my entire career.”

 

“I once arrested a ninety-six-year-old for flashing,” Brian smiles nostalgically. “I was terrified he'd die in my backseat.” He pauses for a moment, then, “Or flash me.” He shivers, blinking away the horrid picture.

 

“My oldest collar was seventy-eight, but the PCP made her fight like she was twenty.” Jim hums, eyes lighting at the memory. Mary waddles up to them, holding a file.

 

“What about two fifty-year-old twins? Does that count as a hundred-year-old?” She asks, but the others reject her notion.

 

“No good.”

 

“No.”

 

“You talking oldest bags?” Phoebe smiles, striding briskly to his desk to put his bag down, then turns to face his friends. “Mine’s sixty-eight.”

 

Brian frowns.

 

“That's not that old.”

 

“Yeah, but I was only twenty,” Phoebe boasts. Roger furrows his brows, confused.

 

“Were you even a cop then?”

 

Phoebe chuckles.

 

“No, it was before I got into the academy.”

 

They all stare at him for a moment, unsure what to make of his statement. Brian mouths a _‘what?’_ to Roger, who shrugs in reply. Jim’s eyes widen, then he snorts.

 

“Phoebe isn't talking about his oldest arrest,” he says, waiting for the others to realise what Phoebe was talking about. It takes a moment, but soon Roger and Brian shrivel in disgust.

 

“Ew!” Brian whines, flapping his arms wildly as if to expel any grossness Phoebe had flung onto him.

 

Phoebe, realising what he just admitted was decidedly not what the others were discussing, immediately lies.

 

“No yes, I am! Yeah, oldest arrest.”

 

“God, you had sex with a sixty-eight-year-old when you were in your twenties?” Roger asks, completely baffled.

 

“You know how it is, when you have a chance to bed an older man, you-“

 

Roger cuts him off when more moans and laughter follow Phoebe’s statement. Brian’s face has morphed into a bull-dog-esque frown.

 

“No, that is not an older man, that's an _old_ man! That's someone's _grandpa!_ ”

 

“He was, actually. That's how I met him. Went to college with his grandson Marvin. Don't - don't knock it till you try it.”

 

Roger is laughing so hard he’s crying, blocking his ears and banging his head against his desk. Jim is cackling loudly and Brian, poor Brian, he just wants Phoebe to stop talking and to sink through the floor.

 

“He had a replacement hip with some serious torque. It was like having sex with a transformer!”

 

Roger stands up and grabs his empty mug, intending to head to the breakroom and refill it. He attempts to set Phoebe straight, but he’s still got the ghost of his laughter tracing his voice.

 

“No! Pheebs, that is no one's fantasy!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Rog, where are we on the Lincoln place murder?” John asks in the briefing room that morning. 

 

“Well, like I told Captain Beach earlier this week, we are getting there.”

 

“Roger, you want to loop everyone in?” Beach commands.

 

“Ehh,” Roger whines, voice high and scratchy and unsure.

 

“That was not a request.”

 

“Fine,” he grumbles, hauling himself from his chair and to the front of the room. “Get ready for some stuff on a screen.” He turns and faces his coworkers. “This chap here is Fred Gorman. Prominent citizen, lawyer, corpse. This is his wife, Ann Hoert. She did not take his last name, but I believe she did take his life.”

 

“Nice,” Freddie smirks, shooting Roger a finger gun.

 

“Thank you, Fred,” he grins back. “Now, Hoert had means, motives, and opportunity. I just need to find the murder weapon. For some reason, the D. A. won't move forward with the arrest until we find the knife she used.”

 

“Is that reason that they want to win the case?” Beach asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

Beach stares at him.

 

“Well, find it.”

 

Roger rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue before continuing.

 

_If he knew where the knife was he would have found it, thank you very much mister robot man._

 

“The family's close to the mayor, and I'm catching heat from the higher-ups. I'm going to ask you again.” Beach makes direct eye contact with Roger. “Do you need any resources or personnel?”

 

“No, sir, I've got it,” Roger reassures.

 

“Okay. Dismissed! Sergeant Deacon, my office.”

 

“Uh-oh,” John mutters, brows scrunching with nerves.

 

“He probably wants to talk to you about how your shirts aren't tight enough,” Freddie teases, leaning forward on the chair he was sitting on. John was by no means ripped, but he definitely was toned and muscular – a lovely piece of eye candy. John shifted self-consciously. He knew Freddie was only teasing, and the comments were certainly flattering, but he didn’t see the point of why Freddie does it.

 

Freddie clapped his hands in excitement and giggles, either not noticing or not caring for John’s discomfort.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay, how can we help? What do you need?” Brian asks, he and Jim approaching Roger. Roger looked up at him.

 

_Giant fucking beanpole._

 

“I need nothing. I'm about to solve this case, meet the mayor, and sell my life rights to Chris Hemsworth so he can play my less attractive brother in the ensuing film.” He smiles, already seeing everything pan out.

 

“Come on, Rog,” Brian folds his arms.

 

“Beach said to use the whole team,” Jim adds. “We all want this solved.”

 

“I appreciate the offer,” Roger says not unkindly, “but I work best alone. Except when it comes to sex.” He pauses, then adds as an afterthought, “actually, sometimes including sex.”

 

“Will you just let us help?” Brian pleads.

 

“Okay, fine.” Roger cracks his knuckles. “I will let one of you help me. Pheebs!”

 

“Yeah!” Phoebe punches a fist in the air in celebration, grinning from his desk.

 

“And I am choosing Phoebe because he's the least likely to steal my thunder.”

 

“I would never steal his thunder,” Phoebe admits. “I-I'd be afraid to borrow it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Meanwhile, in Beach’s office, a whole other showdown is going down.

 

“John, I'd like you to accompany me to a gun range.”

 

“You mean drive you there and wait outside. Far away from the guns,” John says meekly. Beach is not having it.

 

“I spent eight years in the public affairs office, so my tactical skills are a little rusty. I need some pointers.”

 

“Sir, I haven't fired a weapon since the incident,” John begs, eyes shining with fear.

 

“The mannequin incident, I'm familiar.”

 

“I- I may not be the man for the job.”

 

“You used to be the precinct's champion marksman,” Beach presses. “I only want to take pointers from the best. So I'll keep it low-key. We'll go after work to a private range. No cops, no pressure.”

 

_“Blam! Blam, blam!”_

 

John jumps in shock at the unexpected, intrusive and incredibly loud interruption. It’s Freddie, and he skips into the room grinning, fingers poised in an imitation of a gun.

 

“Gun range,” he titters.

 

“I told Freddie he could join us.”

 

“I want to get certified,” Freddie says, looking up at John, who is considerably taller than him (Well, most people are, Freddie is quite short). “There has been a ton of crime in my neighbourhood, and the cops in my precinct are very bad.” He doesn’t shy away from the confused looks both of his superiors give him.

 

“You live in our precinct,” Beach asks.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Freddie sighs sadly. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I know we've gone over this before, but I have to ask you again,” Roger says tiredly. “Is there anywhere you can think of in that hallway where a knife could be hidden?”

 

“Well, since I've already told you, like, three times, no, why don't I just record it? Then I don't have to say it again.” The doorman snarks sassily, annoyed at Roger’s insistence.

 

“That’s really unnecessary, just answer the question.”

 

The doorman huffs and repeats what he’s said numerous times.

 

“The hallway, like all other hallways, does not have a secret knife-hiding place.”

 

 

 

Phoebe and Roger make their way through the hallways, making rounds on doors. Every single one is useless, and Roger feels his skin crawling in frustration.

 

They reach door 309, and Roger raps sharply on the door.

 

“Come on! Police!”

 

The door swings open and an exhausted looking woman carrying a baby looks at them and sighs heavily.

 

“Hey, miss-” Roger begins but is immediately cut off.

 

“Thank God! Here, hold this,” the woman says and gives Roger the child. “The lasagne's burning.”

 

“Okay.” 

 

Roger is so uncomfortable – he doesn’t know how to hold a fucking baby! – and a big Labrador darts out of the door and down the hallway. The baby starts wailing loudly and the woman cries,

 

“Get the dog, but don't let it touch the baby!” 

 

Phoebe chases the dog down the hallway and before things could possibly get even worse, Roger’s phone rings.

 

“Christ,” he groans. He reaches for his phone, swiping to accept the call. “This is Roger,” he says, considerably loudly to be heard over the ruckus of his environment.

 

“I looked at the photos of your victim on your desk,” a thick Irish accent responds, not even bothering with formalities.

 

“Is that Jim? Tell him I said hi.” Phoebe smiles as he carries the dog into the apartment.

 

“The puncture wounds are similar to a case I had a while back,” Jim continues. “They aren't from a knife. I think it's something spiral, like a corkscrew.”

 

The baby starts crying even harder and Roger has an internal breakdown.

 

“Shh, shh, shh, shh,” he coos, smiling at the baby to try and calm it down, but it only sobs harder.

 

“Don't shush me! I'm helping you,” Jim growls from the other line. 

 

“No, no, I'm holding a baby,” Roger elaborates, not wanting to piss off the scary man who had given him very useful information. “That was actually very helpful, thank you.”

 

“Uh-oh.” Jim gets very quiet on the other line.

 

“What?” 

 

Roger’s confused. He has his eyebrows furrowed and presses the phone harder to his ear, as if that would magically make Jim talk. 

 

“You better get back here. Now.”

 

Roger frowns as the click of a phone receiver is heard and the monotonous bleep of the dial tone rings in his ear. He remembers the sobbing baby however, and ducks inside the doorway to get the fuck out of that mess.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Roger wishes he had stayed with the baby and the crazy burning lasagne lady.

 

“Oh! Hello, Roger,” an Irish voice jeers, but it’s not the gruff, deep, rich tones of Jim.

 

Paul fucking Prenter from Major Crimes is sitting at his desk.

 

“No, no, no!” Roger whines, stomping his foot childishly.

 

“I don't know why you're so upset! I'm the one who had to come to this backwater stink hole.”

 

Paul is a six-foot, blond, slimy git that Roger truly hates. Well, they all do at the thirty-ninth precinct.

 

“What's up, big guy?” Paul asks Phoebe as Roger and himself storm past Paul into Beach’s office.

 

“What's up?” Phoebe responds as off-hand-ish as can muster.

 

“Feeling sexy? Huh?” Paul goads.

 

“Yeah, I feel sexy,” Phoebe replies.

 

“Yeah, you look sexy, man.”

 

“You know I do.”

 

 

“Captain, please, please, pretty please do not let him take over my case.”

 

“Major crimes is stepping in. Nothing I can do. You're off the case.”

 

“I can't believe you're just rolling over and giving my murder away to The Vulture.”

 

Roger and Phoebe stand in front of Beach, and Roger actually looks close to tears.

 

“We call him The Vulture because he swoops in and solves cases that are almost solved and takes the credit for himself,” Phoebe supplies in an attempt to be helpful.

 

“Yes, Freestone, I put that together from context,” Beach deadpans, eyebrows raised. Phoebe blushes and ducks his head.

 

“First of all, major crimes have jurisdiction over any and all cases they want to take. But more importantly, you're the one who insisted on working alone. I told you for weeks to use the squad, and you refused.” Roger rubs his hand over his jaw in silent anger as Beach grills him.

 

“I used them,” he sulks. “I mean, Jim's the one who figured out the corkscrew. And Phoebe caught a dog.”

 

Beach shifts his gaze of Phoebe, looking unimpressed.

 

“Oh, congratulations, Detective Freestone,” he says stone-faced. “You should've involved him sooner. Turn over your files to Detective Prenter.”

 

“Sir, call him The Vulture,” Phoebe begs. “Giving him a name makes him human.”

 

“Turn over the files.”

 

“Fine,” Roger snaps.

 

He storms over to his desk and angrily shoves all the paperwork together to give to Prenter.

 

“You know, before I solve this case, I'd like to thank you for doing all the super-easy work, you know, the real Nancy Drew-level stuff.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” Roger snaps the file he’s organising shut hard, a *snap* ringing out. “Did Nancy Drew solve a lot of murders?”

 

“Yeah, she did,” Phoebe pipes up. Prenter points at him without looking at him as Phoebe rattles off book titles. “Murder on Ice, Recipe for Murder. Nancy was a wonderful Detective. I wanted to be her when I grew up.”

 

“Thanks, Phoebe, that's just so helpful,” Roger says sarcastically.

 

“Hey! Should we take odds on how fast I'll solve this case?” Prenter leans back in the chair he’s sitting on, grinning smugly.

 

“Nope.”

 

“I mean, what was it with Hutton's last ‘impossible’ extortion case? What was it, six hours?”

 

“That's because it was 98% solved,” Jim bites, knuckles turning white on the coffee mug he’s holding.

 

“The last 2% is the hardest to get.” Prenter leans forward. “That's why they leave it in the milk.”

 

Freddie struts past, cradling a cat mug full of tea. Paul eyes him up and down. 

 

He’s wearing a pair of tight fitting jeans and a red blouse that compliments him in any and all way. 

 

“Oh! Wow! Looking good, Mercury,” he wolf-whistles. “You foxy-“

 

“Go rot in hell.” Freddie gives him his sweetest smile, and anyone who wasn’t listening would think Freddie hadn’t replied with such a comment. He casts a look at Roger, and Roger knows Freddie in uncomfortable with Prenter’s comments.

 

 _This is your fault_ He thinks to himself.

 

It’s no secret Paul lusts over Freddie, and Freddie wants absolutely nothing to do with him. But whenever Major Crimes steps in, he always finds a way to harass Freddie. Usually it’ll be in passing like this, but there have been cases where others have stepped in for fear what he would do.

 

Roger finishes packing up the case and hands Paul the file.

 

“Thanks, good effort. I got it from here.” He walks away and Roger flips him off behind his back, scowling.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, Brian, Phoebe Jim and Roger crowd around a table in one of their more frequented bars.

 

“God, I hate The Vulture so much!” Roger runs a hand through his hair.

 

“Me too.” Jim agrees. “But he's kind of hot.”

 

Everyone gives him varying amounts of looks of incredulousness.

 

“What?” He continues. “You can hate people and still think they're hot. Case in point, Manuel Noriega.”

 

“You know what? I'm with you on this.” Roger grins dopily. “Tonya Harding.”

 

Jim considers this for a moment.

 

“Yeah, she's thick.”

 

“Right?”

 

“Always classy, Rog.” Brian shakes his head fondly. “Sorry you got vultured. Happens to the best of us.”

 

“God, I just I want to get back at him so bad! I wish I could throw his cell phone in the toilet or slash his tires, I don't know.” Roger drains the rest of his drink to give him something to do.

 

“Or slash his gorgeous throat,” Jim smiles.

 

“I cannot figure you out,” Phoebe mutters, swirling his drink in its glass.

 

“Okay, I'm buying everyone drinks as long as we're here thinking of a revenge plan.” Roger fishes his wallet from his pocket. “Best idea gets 50 bucks. Throw 'em on out.”

 

“What if you called him from a hospital and said his whole family is dead? Like, they died of cancer.” Phoebe’s eyes are wide with either excitement or fear, like he doesn’t know why he came up with that idea.

 

“Pheebs, that is so dark.” Roger looks aghast. Then he picks up a pen and starts scribbling on a napkin. “I'm putting it down.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The gun range is practically empty when John, Beach and Freddie arrive.

 

They’ve been there for approximately half an hour and John is just about ready to pull his hair out.

 

“So my stance feels good, - but I'm still not hitting centre,” Beach says, lowering his gun and turning to John.

 

“All right.” John moves to position himself behind Beach to help him adjust his stance. “Back your left foot up a hair.”

 

“Like this?” Freddie calls from the other side of the divider and John peeks around to check, only for his eyes to widen dramatically to see what Freddie is doing.

 

Freddie is holding the gun out in front of him with his right hand, his left hand on his hip – which is cocked to the side sassily – and his right arm is moving up and down daintily as if he’s not holding a lethal weapon.

 

“Mm, mm, mm! No! Freddie! We've been over this.”

 

“Well, show me, darling!” He turns and blinks his big, doe eyes up at him. “Like, wrap your muscular arms around me and –“ Freddie grabs one of John’s arms and pulls it around his shoulders and leans back into him, giggling as John writhes away.

 

“All right, look, hands here, stand up straight, chin forward.” 

 

He holds Freddie’s arms out with him, his larger hands encapsulating Freddie’s smaller ones. But Freddie slips out of his grip.

 

“Hold on, dear, my nose itches.”

 

And he uses the gun to scratch his nose and John just about has an aneurism.

 

“Freddie!” John whimpers. Beach’s voice interrupts John’s crisis.

 

“When I lock my shooting arm, the other hand feels unstable.” John ducks to his boss’s little cubby. “Now, what stance am I supposed to be doing? Weaver or isosceles?”

 

“You guys did stances?” Freddie’s voice cuts in. “Like, I'll be like,”

 

John ducks around to see Freddie posing like one of Charlie’s Angels, and Beach mutters,

 

“Yeah, everybody does stances, Freddie.”

 

“Listen, uh-“

 

John closes his eyes in frustration and everything comes to a halt when he yells,

 

“Hey, all right, all right! Look, hey, both you, just watch.”

 

He snatches Freddie’s gun and fires seven shots in a perfect bullseye.

 

“That's eight! He did it!” Freddie cheers, jumping up and down and clapping his hands, but Beach puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“That was only seven.”

 

John eyes them wearily.

 

“Why are you counting my shots?”

 

When neither of them answer, he realises what they’re doing.

 

“Are you trying to have me recertified?”

 

“Yes.”

 

John scoffs. At least Beach didn’t even try to lie.

 

“If you make eight of ten shots, I can sign off on you carrying a gun again. Freddie's here as an official witness, and I thought it'd be easier for you in a no-pressure environment."

 

“I can't believe you tricked me!” John’s bottom lip starts to tremble and Beach attempts to calm him down.

 

“You're too good a cop to be shackled to a desk. You only have one hit until you get recertified. So deep breath, huh? Take the final shot. Don't overthink it.”

 

John nods and rolls his shoulders.

 

“Just relax and breathe,” he mumbles to himself. He raises the gun and aims it at the silhouette. “Bring air into your lungs like you've done your whole life.”

 

John chokes for a second and immediately panics.

 

“Oh, my God. Guys! How do you breathe? I forgot how to breathe! Is it two in, one out?”

 

John begins to hyperventilate and Freddie rubs his back comfortingly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“What if we wrap his motorcycle in plastic wrap and melt it with a hair dryer? Little trick I learned in gift basket making class.”

 

Phoebe downs the rest of his wine and Roger finishes writing down his suggestion. He picks up the napkin and clears his throat.

 

“All right. Here's what we're up to. Steal his kidney, burn down his house, replace his aloe tissues with regular tissues. Thank you, Phoebe.”

 

“You're welcome,” he hums, happy and somewhat tipsy. Roger continues.

 

“Leave a dead cat in his cedar closet. Note; he would have to own a cedar closet.”

 

“He seems like he would,” Jim says, grinning into his drink.

 

“Sneak into his apartment and burn popcorn in the microwave. Thank you, Phoebe.”

 

Phoebe cackles evilly, and yep, he is definitely more than tipsy.

 

Roger sighs and throws the napkin onto their table.

 

“Well, I hate to say it, but I think, by default, Phoebe’s motorcycle idea is the winner. Let's get into it. Anybody know where The Vulture lives?”

 

Jim knocks back the rest of his drink and answers.

 

“On third, right near here.”

 

“How do you know that?” Phoebe asks suspiciously. Jim just smirks and arches an eyebrow playfully. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s dark, they’re drunk and wrapping the Vulture’s motorcycle in clingwrap.

 

“Yes!”

 

“Take that, Vulture!”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Nice.”

 

“All right, give me your hair dryer,” Roger says, holding his hand out to Brian.

 

“What? What are you talking about?” Brian is baffled. Why would he carry a _hairdryer?_

 

“Don't you carry one in your bag?”

 

“Have you ever met a human?” Brian asks.

 

“Well, what do you carry in your bag, then?”

 

“What do you carry in your bag?” Brian shoots back. Roger scoffs.

 

“I don’t carry a fucking bag, Brian.” 

 

Brian glares at him, and Roger pulls his phone out of his pocket, dialling quickly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Take the shot, Deacon,” Beach commands.

 

“I just need a second,” he mumbles.

 

“You've had 18 minutes of seconds!”

 

A phone’s ringtone blares into the quietness of the gun range, and Freddie is quick to answer.  
“Freddie's authentic stolen police badges, how can I help?” he mumbles quietly, but Beach’s ears still prick up and he listens carefully to Freddie’s conversation.

 

_“Hey, it's Roger.”_

 

“Oh, hey, Roggie.” Freddie visibly perks up.

 

_“Hey, do you carry a hair dryer in your bag?”_

 

Freddie scoffs.

 

“Of course. I'm not an animal.”

 

On the other end, Roger has him on speaker phone, and he grins triumphantly at Brian.

 

“Great. I need you to bring it to The Vulture's apartment.”

 

Freddie immediately shoots him down.

 

“Prenter's apartment? No way, dear, you couldn’t pay me.”

 

“Come on, mate,” he whines, but before anymore could be said, Beach snatches the phone from Freddie’s hand.

 

“Roger, why are you asking Freddie about Detective Prenter?”

 

_“Oh, Captain, hello. Uh, we are preparing him a gift basket of sorts.”  
_

 

Beach frowns in contempt. 

 

“Look, I understand that you're upset. But if you want to keep this from happening again, I suggest that you pull your team together and solve these cases before major crimes can step in. Am I clear?”

 

Roger smirks, and Brian eyes him worriedly.

 

“Yes. That is definitely clear. Thank you, sir.”

 

Roger hangs up the phone and puts it in his pocket. 

 

“You should be frowning,” Brian accuses, waggling a finger at him. He turns to Jim. “Why is Roger smi- why are you smiling?” He cuts himself off to address Roger. 

 

“Because the Captain just gave us the perfect revenge plan.” Roger grins evilly, rubbing his palms together. “We team up and solve this case right now!”

 

Brian folds his arms and eyes him reproachfully.

 

“That is not what he meant.”

 

“Think about it, Brian,” Roger begs. “We go back to the scene of the crime, find the murder weapon, and out-vulture The Vulture! No one gets in trouble if we crack the case.”

 

Brian thinks for a moment, then holds his hands up in surrender.

 

“Okay, screw it. I'm in.”

 

“Yes!” Roger pumps his fist in the air. “We're angry. We're getting revenge,” he chants giddily. “We're a little bit tipsy. We should not be driving.” He leads his group of friends away from where they are standing as he commands, “we're taking the bus.”

 

Phoebe claps his hands together happily.

 

“I love the bus!”

 

 

Once on the bus, Roger plonked himself beside Brian and proceeded to fill him in on his current case that was under threat.

 

“So the waitress heard the couple arguing at dinner. Apparently he was having an affair, and it was not the first time.” Roger speaks louder than necessary, but Brian listens attentively. “Two years ago, she caught him with a dog walker who was walking his dog, if you know what I mean.” He grins at his own innuendo, raising his eyebrows when he gauges little reactions from his friend.

 

“I do.” Brian folds his arms, only _slightly_ amused.

 

“Right?” Roger nudges him enthusiastically and Brian chuckles softly.

 

“Yes, I got it,” he reassures him.

 

“Sex times,” Roger says loudly, and a couple other bus-patrons give him a disapproving look. However, these looks are ignored by both men. “Anyways, we know it's the wife.”

 

Brian doesn’t speak for a moment. He swallows tightly then raises a patronising eyebrow.

 

“You're real talkative now that you want our help.”

 

Roger has the decency to blush, and he ducks his head and runs a hand through his blond locks.

 

“All right,” he speaks hesitantly, not wanting to admit his guilt. The way Brian is looking at him, though, makes Roger shift in his seat uncomfortably. “It is possible that I should've brought you guys in sooner. But I just get so excited, wrapped up in wanting to solve stuff, you know?”

 

Brian’s eyes soften significantly, and he gently rubs his hand on Roger’s arm in a soothing manner. Roger looks down at where Brian’s hand rests on him, and he feels his cheeks heat up.

 

“I get it,” Brian says softly, understanding why Roger behaved the way that he did. “You want to be the best. We all do.” He squeezes Roger’s arm gently then releases him. Roger frowns slightly. “You just don't have to be such a butthead about it,” Brian mutters under his breath, turning to look the window; the insult was picked up immediately by Roger.  
Roger glares at him half-heartedly, a mock-look of offence adorning his features. Brian, feeling Roger’s eyes on him, turns back to him. Brian scrunches his eyebrows in confusion.

 

“What?” 

 

“I just can't believe you would call me a butthead,” Roger whines, voice trembling, though his eyes were glinting his laughter, and a smile danced on his lips. Brian, immediately knowing Roger was joking, shoved him playfully and looked down, his long hair shielding his blush from view.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“That's so harsh.”

 

Across the bus, Jim huffs in annoyance and storms from his seat to sit beside Phoebe. He sits down, rather aggressively. Phoebe smiles hopefully but immediately turns to look out the window again when he says,

 

“Elton farts nonstop.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Still waiting, John,” Beach drones. John apologises immediately.

 

“The target looks exactly like a friend of mine,” he explains. “It's just – it’s really freaking me out.”

 

“You have a friend –“ Beach says, gesturing to the target – “Who's just a silhouette?”

 

John blinks.

 

“…Yes.”

 

 

Not long later, John believes he has the most brilliant idea.

 

“Let's all just count to a million!” Freddie glances up from his phone and scoffs. John ignores him. “One, two, three, four, five, six-“

 

 

20 minutes pass and John is explaining the plot of the movie _Top Gun_.

 

“So then Iceman says, ‘You can be my wingman any day.’ And then Maverick says-“

 

“I've seen the film, John.” Beach rubs his forehead tiredly, but Freddie is leaning forward on his elbows across the cubicle, nervously chewing his thumbnail. When the captain cuts John off, Freddie glares at his boss indignantly. He waves a carefully manicured hand around.

 

“I haven't! What happens next? Goose comes back, right?”

 

John shrugs, and Freddie insists Goose’s mortality.

 

“He's not really dead.”

 

John sighs sympathetically.

 

“Goose is gone.”

 

Freddie’s response seems genuine when his hand drops to the table gracelessly with a thud.

 

“No!”

 

“I know!”

 

 

* * *

 

“All right, here's how it went down.”

 

Roger, Jim, Brian, Elton and Phoebe are crowded in Hoert’s apartment’s kitchen. Roger’s briefing the rest of the squad about his oh-so-important case that was vulnerable to Major Crimes.

 

“Wife goes down to the doorman, says a guy murdered her husband and then ran off. We _know_ she's lying.” Roger tucks his hair behind his ear then faces the others, hands on his hips. “We've just got to find the corkscrew to make our case airtight.”

 

Brian nods and Jim hums in agreement. Roger clicks his fingers and smirks.

 

“I say we role-play, see if something sparks.”

 

Phoebe nods and waddles forward. 

 

“Nice, mate,” Roger grins, giving him a high five. They position themselves in the centre of the kitchen and Roger clears his throat and pitches his voice higher, imitating a woman.

 

“Darling, thank you for a lovely dinner. Perhaps we should have one more drink before bed.”

 

Phoebe waggles an accusatory finger at Roger.

 

“Don't you 'darling' me, you philanderer-“ he begins in a voice higher than Roger, but Roger cuts him off almost immediately.

 

“No, you're the husband,” he snaps sharply. “The husband had the affair.”

 

Phoebe’s face falls.

 

“I'm always the victim,” he grouses. “I don't _want_ to be the victim.”

 

Roger glares at him, then pulls his lips into a plastic smile, turning to Jim and Brian.

 

“Okay, Phoebe is the door,” he lilts, but Phoebe’s eyes widen and he shakes his hands at Roger desperately.

 

“No! I'll be the victim. Don't make me a door again.”

 

“Great.” Roger nods and makes his way to the rows of draws underneath the bench. “Okay, so Wife goes into the drawer, gets the corkscrew.” He opens the draw and pretends to hold the corkscrew. He turns to Phoebe and pretends to stab him whilst narrating with an eloquent, “Stab, stab, stab.”

 

While Phoebe pretends to bleed out on the floor, Roger consults his friends.

 

“What did she do with the corkscrew?”

 

Brian’s response it immediate.

 

“She dumps it in the hallway trash chute on the way to the doorman.”

 

Roger shakes his head.

 

“No, we checked the trash, like, ten times. We would've seen a bloody corkscrew.” Seeing Elton about to break something that looked like an antique and was probably worth a fair amount of money, Roger is quick to call him over and away from the fragile decorations that weren’t theirs and definitely could not afford to repair. “All right, Elton, you're up.”

 

Elton’s roleplay is something Roger probably lost brain cells watching. He roars enthusiastically as he pretends to plunge the weapon deep into Phoebe’s chest, then pulls away with a knowing smile.

 

“The body,” he laughs, though he is completely serious. “The corkscrew's still in the body!”

 

Roger grunts and rubs his hand over his forehead and flaps his other hand in the general direction of him.

 

“No, you're terrible at this. Go sit down. You're up, Jim.”

 

Jim’s turn is quite violent, if Roger may say so himself.

 

“Stab!” Jim yells. He looks around and spots a window. “Then I toss the corkscrew out the window, and it lands on a passing car.”

 

Roger is quick to debunk his guess too.

 

“Security cam showed no one driving by at that time and nothing on the street.”

 

Brian sighs.

 

“Okay, I want in. But I only want to stab you.” He points at Roger.

 

“Fine,” Roger concedes. “Okay, uh, sweetheart,” he begins but Brian remains deadpan as he says,

 

“Time to die.” He ignores Rogers _‘that seems a little harsh’_ as he spins and faces the fridge, noting the variety of magnets. His brain whirrs and he thinks out loud.

 

“What if it was a magnetic corkscrew?” 

 

Roger blinks slowly at him. 

 

“If the corkscrew was on a magnet-“

 

“It's stuck halfway down the inside of the trash chute. I figured it out first!”

 

Roger pushes past Brian and Brian huffs as they race down the hallway to the trash chute. Roger pulls the door of the chute open and Brian rifles through his bag and pulls out a ginormous flashlight, turning it on with a _click._ Roger scoffs.

 

“You have a ten-pound flashlight in your bag, but not a hair dryer?”

 

Brian rolls his eyes, but otherwise ignores him, leaning into the chute and waving the light around.

 

“I can't see far enough down,” he grumbles. “Someone's gonna have to go down in there. Someone with narrow shoulders.”

 

Everyone turns to Roger, who is trying to peer through the chute. He notices the silence and turns around to see everyone staring at him. He realises what they are insinuating and immediately protests. He holds his hands up defensively.

 

“No! I have broad shoulders. I have narrow hips, but broad shoulders.” He gesticulates at them as he speaks, but seeing no one bat an eye, he concedes. 

 

He rolls his shoulders and turns to face the chute again. Brian hands him the flashlight and pats his shoulder good-naturedly, and Roger flips him off.

 

“This is for the case, you bastard,” he growls, and Brian grins even wider. “Make it quick.” He braces himself as Brian and Jim lift him up, engaging his core as he is gingerly lowered into the chute.

 

“See anything?” Brian calls when only Roger’s feet stick through the opening of the chute. He and Jim struggle to keep a hold of him. 

 

“A little lower,” Roger’s voice echoes back through the stainless steel chute, and it is at that moment when harsh voices cause Brian to almost jump out of his skin, and he lets go of Roger.

 

“Freeze! Hands in the air!” 

 

Three police officers have their guns pointed at them and Brian scrambles to put his hands in the air.

 

Jim lets out an _oof_ when he is suddenly the only one holding onto Roger and he can hear Roger shriek halfway down the chute.

 

“We're cops,” Jim assures the other police officers, and Brian and Jim show them their badges.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Apparently, our Detective squad has gotten drunk, compromised the crime scene, and an officer has gotten stuck in a trash chute.”

 

John stares dumbfounded at Beach when he lowers his phone and addresses him. 

 

_What in God’s name is wrong with his detectives?_

 

“I need you to lead this squad, John. And I mean really lead it.” Beach’s eyes flicker to the silhouette with seven gunshots. “I hope you take the shot.”

 

* * *

 

The 39th Precinct has a certain tenseness in the atmosphere as the drunk detectives stand outside Beach’s office. The Vulture – Paul Prenter, is currently yelling at Beach and Brian looks just about ready to kill himself as they hear what Prenter is yelling.

 

_“What kind of precinct are you running here?”_

 

The other detectives cannot hear what Beach says, but they hear Prenter sarcastically reply;

 

_“Hell yeah, I'm upset. Your team disrupted a crime scene over which they have zero - zero - jurisdiction. They were publicly drunk. Apparently one of them pressed all the buttons on the elevator-“_

 

Prenter is pacing back and forth and Beach just sits in his chair.

 

“What now? Beach is gonna kill you,” Brian murmurs. Roger grins slyly.

 

“I don't think he will.” Brian gives him an incredulous look, and Roger pulls out a plastic bag from behind his back. “Voila!”

 

Brian sputters in disbelief, a smile spreading across his face. “You actually found the corkscrew in the trash chute?”

 

Roger nods and his smile turns genuine, his voice soft. “Stuck to the side, just like you said.”

 

“Oh, my God, you guys, we out-vultured The Vulture!” Brian cheered. He spread his arms like a bird and made a _ca-caw_ sound, and Roger grimaced.

 

“What the fuck was that?” Brian glared at him.

 

“It's a vulture,” he says, more than slightly offended.

 

Roger blinked and decided this was his clue to leave.

 

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna take this corkscrew over to the D.A. So we get the collar, not major crimes.”

 

_“Roger!”_

 

Roger whips his head around and finds John storming towards him, Freddie gracefully following at a much slower pace, gazing at John in wonder. Freddie was also holding a large sheet of paper.

 

“Now.”

 

John grabs his elbow and pulls Roger onto the balcony. John slams the door shut, making Roger jump slightly. The air is cold and he shivers slighty; he had taken his jacket off once inside the warmth of the precinct.

 

“Okay. Before you get mad –“

 

“Shut it!” John snaps. Roger ducks his head in shame. “Beach was right. I've been so worried about my own kids, I forgot about my stupid grown-up kids.”

 

“That's insulting,” Roger mumbles under his breath.

 

“I should've been on you guys more,” John sighs. His gaze hardens and he glares at Roger. “And starting now, I will be,” he promises. “But if you ever do this again, I swear I will crush your head in one hand.”

 

Roger smiles awkwardly. “You don't mean that.”

 

“Try me,” John snarls. Then he turns on his heel to go inside. Roger calls after him.

 

“Where you going?”

 

John gives him a look.

 

“The boss is taking heat for something that's not even his fault. I can't let that happen.”

 

Guilt flows through Roger and he grabs John’s arm as he turns to go inside again.

 

“Wait. Damn it. It’s not your fault either. And it's not The Vulture's fault.” Roger pauses. "It's Brian's.”

 

John stretches a hand out to him in a threatening manner and Roger quickly corrects himself.

 

“I know. I know. It's mine. It's mine, okay? God, I do _not_ love how this worked out.”

 

Roger stalks inside and throws the door open, and sees no one paying attention to him - Brian has his head in his hands as he sits at his desk, having some kind of crisis; Phoebe shoving a cupcake in his mouth by the kitchen, and Freddie and Jim deep in conversation at Freddie’s desk, Jim smiling softly as Freddie smiles warmly, one finger twirling a strand of hair coquettishly. Neither of them notice Roger walk past them.

 

Smiling sarcastically, Roger opens the door to Beach’s office, halting Prenter in whatever spiel he was on.

 

“Detective Prenter,” he greets cordially. 

 

“Now what?” Prenter groans.

 

“I'd like to cordially invite you to calm down, especially considering that this case has already been solved.” Roger says monotonously. “By you! Looks like you found the murder weapon.” He presents the plastic bag with the corkscrew. Prenter runs his tongue over his teeth.

 

“It's a good thing you realized it was magnetically stuck to the inside of the trash chute.”

 

Roger raises his eyebrows in a challenge, and Beach smirks.

 

“Congratulations,” he addresses Prenter. “Cracked the case all by yourself. We done here?”

 

Prenter glares at Roger for a moment, then snatches the bag.

 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, we're done here.”

 

Prenter exits the office and notices Freddie immediately. He looks at him up and down, and Jim glares.

 

“Stay foxy,” Prenter leers.

 

“Die lonely,” Freddie replies without hesitation. 

 

Roger and Beach follow Prenter out of the office.

 

“Well, case closed! Good work, everyone.” Roger heads over to his desk briskly to avoid any confrontation which he is sure his boss is bound to impose on them. “Let's, uh, call it a night without any further discussion.”

 

“No!” Beach says, and Roger closes his eyes in frustration. He has all of their attention, and Brian stands up immediately; Phoebe slowly goes to stand next to Roger. “All of you broke into a crime scene under the influence of alcohol, overstepped your jurisdiction, and disobeyed my direct orders. Everyone involved tonight is gonna get written up.” 

 

Just the look on Brian’s face is enough to make Roger want to walk into the ocean. Brian’s eyes fill with tears, and he bites his trembling lip, looking down at the floor. 

 

Roger can’t do this to him.

 

“Okay, fine,” he says, addressing Beach. Here's everyone who was there. Roger Taylor, Doctor Roger Taylor, who has a PhD in –“

 

“Okay, enough,” Beach commands.

 

“My point is it was a Roger special, sir,” Roger says seriously. “No one else was there.”

 

Beach nods. “Well, Detective, I'm happy to see you're learning how to be part of a team. Everybody go home,” he reports to all of them. “Sleep it off.”

 

John makes his way towards the captain who is standing beside Freddie at Freddie’s desk, talking to him and Jim.

 

“Sir?” He meekly says. Beach raises an eyebrow. John shyly hands him the silhouette with ten bullet holes. “Thank you.”

 

Freddie giggles. “Ultimately, it was our raw sexual chemistry that helped him overcome his crippling fear.” Jim stares at Freddie in shock, and John is quick to blush, stammering out,

 

“Um- uh, no, no it-“ 

 

Beach nods, knowing Freddie was kidding.

 

“It's gonna be a long road, but I'm ready to get myself back in the game,” John affirms.

 

“I know you will,” Beach says.

 

“I mean, eventually.” John clarifies. “Not tonight. I need to go hug my baby boys.” His eyes began to glisten with tears, and he excused himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hi hello
> 
> please comment :)
> 
> thanks ily

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


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